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WORK: 
A STORY OF EXPERIENCE. 


Lite @ 


LOUISA, MeALCOTT, 


AUTHOR OF “LITTLE WOMEN,” “LITTLE MEN,” ‘AN OLD-FASHIONED 
” 
ETC. 


GIRL,” ‘‘HOSPITAL SKETCHES, 


RAN, 

RS AS 
RS AMIS 
SA ay ii) Ni 

Lhe ete eat 
Y RES nee pet ae iy 


\ 


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My 
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Zz Ze 


“ An endless significance lies in work; in idleness alone is there perpetual 
despair.’’ — CARLYLE. 


BOSTON: 
oO et eg TUSTIN O Be Oe cd hake 
1882. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
LOUISA M. ALCOTT, 


In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


University Press: Joun Witson & Son, 
CAMBRIDGE. 


TO 


MY MOTHER, 


WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN A LONG LABOR OF LOVE, 


THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED 
- 4 
BY 


HER DAUGHTER. 


696469 


A 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 
TR GHIR IST TH vee soy oe cee ere Oe ee eo ce fod ieee 5! 


TT MEER VAN Dike a eg eee APT ae cee ey one a) hgh tok © Une 
PUPA OTRESS re os i ent iio basen Foainae hk oth caMOe 
LV aa GOVERNESS (3. cig teres ¢ 516 re eo 
NeMEISCOMPANION oi! cit iced Ss cap alee cua es cone 
VL See ICA METERS 055) doy og) Gh ea eats ogi ght eRe 
vil wee aTROUGH @THiee MISTS estes. 4 see 
illite. CURES FOR + DESPAIR asl rst.s ca) ~s) bag, oan 
IX. Mrs... Witxrns’s MInistER +: -.. .-., . 197 
oP DEGINNING AGAIN (cemeteries) soe a 
Ai. IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. .° 2) ss SEZ4e 
EVs -CHRUIEIE S..GALA? paitsmn ul gees Bice. lis 2.) | SOW. 
PRED eV) ANG Lo lem cabs hot ia Bree 3) oes Yee e 
BS RV eV ICH (orn oe Meine e oly Aik gee Di iy. Deal 
De Vie WEEDSUMMERN te ate oe Lae ei? Cae aba 
OV PaeeMLUS TER Es LN, cols. tree ake eee Lew me ea, Des 
PRON (SHE SOOOLONE D3 0 mes. Ce) oak gees es eee 
eV LES UNRISE. <2 oo OSPR PS 8 kG. rele «ee 
DS DAPEIETEE PLBART S-HASH 9 0a o- .. oa) 6”) eee) 
ke ATR ORT Y<qhsi ds teireuly ash celine Geet l beats: ac eee ees 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, 


FROM DRAWINGS BY SOL EYTINGE. 


PAGE 
‘“ How doth the little busy bee” . . . . . . =. ~ Vagnette. 
Christie... ~. se Et y eo S/F s Shae Z 


Aunt Betsey’s Terria Sreesh sahil, ate Lee en ae 4 
WITS OLOAT ts 2 My. .0, )-0. > dessa Medley) a. SNE a oe Las 
ELCDSE Ves, rule is ; ot het jason Ae aw Us its eer ie tie ae at 
Christie as Queen of the Raion sist p. Vache a7 Lhe aRcen ete me 
Mr. Philip Mletchers¢ <<. > . tint iv cet fast ee es ee AO 
Mrs. Saltonstall and: Namily 7 cee sc) ce et eo ee Oo 
“Nooithank you). qeaeseremeigty ers seen arise ha? eae 
HICICMMeAITOLAt: sa Ws SOT) e! eis “es * sj hiss) 1S 
Mrs. King and Miss Cotton ta at Ae eee ho) Somers 8 ag ri! 


The Rescue .. . ay Lia eo Tea oe EE 
““C, Wilkins, Clear Starchaee en ae era ae de he 
Lisha Wilkins. . . . ae ek th ee ter eee Pee Le 


Mrs. Wilkins’ “ Six ee Infante’ Pe Mey as ato nee Pabbde Wee 
RMixsPower, <5. |: ees Bs” fo a eee ira Bi ee a 
MrsoSterling = <-470s, ee Os aie sy ALT BA 
David and Christie in the Crees at Vs Re oe, eee 
Mr. Power and Christie in the Strawberry Bed . . . . . 250 
AcHricndly Chat.) 4c s Je ees eh <0. cee i) anu eee 
Woittyeemet ys |. rk Ee lr ey er 
“One Happy Montene Bie a Mae Rhee ee ek Rt pee On 
David spels) 5°.) (Seder uR ie hen ae) s eee eee ees 
““Then they were married”. . vegeta bea ar yeaa ne 
Don’t mourn, dear heart, ee WORK? 1), Ad tes a SA 
“She ’s a good little gal ; looks consid’able like you”. . . 419 
“ Each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the 
Happy end ss ccdge 50 c aaa oy ode es 


WORK: 


A STORY OF EXPERIENCE, 


CHAPTER I. 


CHRISTIE. 


CuRISTIE. 


RS UNT BETSEY, there’s going to be a new Dec- 
laration of Independence.” 

“ Bless and save us, what do you mean, child?” And 
the startled old lady precipitated a pie into the oven 
with destructive haste. 

“JT mean that, being of age, I’m going to take care 


1 A 


2 WORK. 


of myself, and not be a burden any longer. Uncle 
wishes me out of the way; thinks I ought to go, and, 
sooner or later, will tell me so. I don’t intend to wait 
for that, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away 
into the world and seek my fortune. I know I can 
find it.” 

Christie emphasized her speech by energetic demon- 
strations in the bread-trough, kneading the dough as if 
it was her destiny, and she was shaping it to suit her- 
self; while Aunt Betsey stood listening, with uplifted 
pie-fork, and as much astonishment as her placid face 
was capable of expressing. As the girl paused, with a 
decided thump, the old lady exclaimed : 

“ What crazy idee you got into your head now ?” 

“A very sane and sensible one that’s got to be 
worked out, so please listen to it, ma'am. Tve had it a 
good while, I’ve thought it over thoroughly, and I’m 
sure it’s the right thing for me to do. I’m old enough 
to take care of myself; and if I’d been a boy, I should 
have been told to do it long ago. I hate to be depend- 
ent; and now there’s no need of it, I can’t bear it any 
longer. If you were poor, I wouldn’t leave you; for I 
never forget how kind you have been to me. But 
Uncle doesn’t love or understand me; I ama burden to 
him, and I must go where I can take care of myself. I 
can’t be happy till I do, for there’s nothing here for me. 
I’m sick of this dull town, where the one idea is eat, 
drink, and get rich; I don’t find any friends to help me 
as I want to be helped, or any work that I can do well; 
so let me go, Aunty, and find my place, wherever it is.” 

“But I do need you, deary ; and you mustn’t think 
Uncle don’t like you. He does, only he don’t show it; 


CHRISTIE. 3 


and when your odd ways fret him, he ain’t pleasant, I 
know. I don’t see why you can’t be contented; I’ve 
lived here all my days, and never found the place lone- 
some, or the folks unneighborly.”. And Aunt Betsey 
looked perplexed by the new idea. 

“You and I are very different, ma’am. There was 
more yeast put into my composition, I guess; and, after 
standing quiet in a warm corner so long, I begin to fer+ 
ment, and ought to be kneaded up in time, so that I 
may turn out a wholesome loaf. You can’t do this; so 
let me go where it can be done, else I shall turn sour 
and good for nothing. Does that make the matter any 
clearer?” And Christie’s serious face relaxed into a 
smile as her aunt’s eye went from her to the nicely 
moulded loaf offered as an illustration. 

‘‘T see what you mean, Kitty; but I never thought 
on’t before. You be better riz than me; though, let 
me tell you, too much emptins makes bread poor stuff, 
like baker’s trash; and too much workin’ up makes it 
hard and dry. Now fly ’round, for the big oven is 
most het, and this cake takes a sight of time in the 
mixin’.” 

“ You haven’t said I might go, Aunty,” began the girl, 
after a long pause devoted by the old lady to the prep- 
aration of some compound which seemed to require 
great nicety of measurement in its ingredients; for 
when she replied, Aunt Betsey curiously interlarded 
her speech with audible directions to herself from the 
receipt-book before her. 

“ T ain’t no right to keep you, dear, ef you choose to 
take (a pinch of salt). I’m sorry you ain’t happy, and 
think you might be ef you’d only (beat six eggs, yolks and 


% 


4 WORK. 


Yi) 
llldes 


ZZ 
LLL 
LLZLITEIEE 


LLL 
Ui 


Z 
Wide: 


AunT Betsry’s INTERLARDED SPEECH. 


whites together). But ef you can’t, and feel that you 
need (two cups of sugar), only speak to Uncle, and ef 
he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and 
take my blessin’ with you (not forgettin’ to cover with 
a piece of paper).” 

Christie’s laugh echoed through the kitchen ; and the 
old lady smiled benignly, quite unconscious of the 
cause of the girl’s merriment. 

“T shall ask Uncle to-night, and I know he won’t 
object. Then I shall write to see if Mrs. Flint has a 
room for me, where I can stay till I get something to 


ie at 


a 


CHRISTIE. 5 


do. There is plenty of work in the world, and I’m not 
afraid of it; so you’ll soon hear good news of me. 
Don’t look sad, for you know I never could forget you, 
even if I should become the greatest lady in the land.” 
And Christie left the prints of two floury but affection- 
ate hands on the old lady’s shoulders, as she kissed the 
wrinkled face that had never worn a frown to her. 

Full of hopeful fancies, Christie salted the pans and 
buttered the dough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mun- 
dane affairs, and the ludicrous dismay of Aunt Betsey, 
who followed her about rectifying her mistakes, and 
watching over her as if this sudden absence of mind 
had roused suspicions of her sanity. 

“Uncle, I want to go away, and get my own living, 
if you please,” was Christie’s abrupt beginning, as they 
sat round the evening fire. 

“Hey! what’s that ?” said Uncle Enos, rousing from 
the doze he was enjoying, with a candle in perilous 
proximity to his newspaper and his nose. 

Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, 
when, after a meditative stare, the old man briefly 
answered : 

“Wal, go ahead.” 

“JT was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir.” 

“T think it’s the best thing you could do; and I like 
your good sense in pupposin’ on’t.” 

“Then I may really go?” | 

“ Soon’s ever you like. Don’t pester me about it till 
you’re ready ; then [’ll give you a little suthing to start 
off with.” And Uncle Enos returned to “ The Farmer's 
Friend,” as if cattle were more interesting than kindred. 

Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and care- 


6 WORK. 


less manner; had expected nothing more cordial; and, 
turning to her aunt, said, rather bitterly : 

“ Didn’t I tell you he’d be glad to have me go? No 
matter! When I’ve done something to be proud of, he 
will be as glad to see me back again.” Then her voice 
changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips softened 
with a smile. “ Yes, I’ll try my experiment; then I’ll 
get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better 
still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or” — 

“ How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?” 

Christie’s castles in the air vanished at the pro- 
saic question ; but, after a blank look, she answered pleas- 
antly : 

“ Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, 
when I was soaring away too far and too fast. I’m 
poorly off, ma’am; but if you are knitting these for me, 
I shall certainly start on a firm foundation.” And, lean- 
ing on Aunt Betsey’s knee, she patiently discussed the 
wardrobe question from hose to head-gear. 

“Don’t you think you could be contented any way, 
Christie, ef I make the work lighter, and leave you 
more time for your books and things?” asked the old 
lady, loth to lose the one youthful element in her quiet 
life. 

“ No, ma’am, for I can’t find what I want here,” was 
the decided answer. 

“What do you want, child?” 

“ Look in the fire, and Ill try to show you.” 

The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that 
way; and Christie said in a tone half serious, half play- 
ful : 

“Do you see those two logs? Well that one smoul- 


CHRISTIE. F 


dering dismally away in the corner is what my life is 
now; the other blazing and singing is what I want my 
life to be.” 

“Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin’ 
where they are put, and both will be ashes to-morrow ; 
so what difference doos it make?” 

Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following 
the fancy that pleased her, she added earnestly : 

“T know the end is the same; but it does make a 
difference how they turn to ashes, and how I spend my 
life. That log, with its one dull spot of fire, gives 
neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling despondently 
among the cinders. But the other glows from end to 
end with cheerful little flames that go singing up the 
chimney with a pleasant sound. Its light fills the room 
and shines out into the dark; its warmth draws us 
nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the house, 
and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it dies. 
Yes,” she added, as if to herself, “I hope my life may 
be like that, so that, whether it be long or short, it will 
be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when 
it ends, and leave something behind besides ashes.” 

Though she only half understood them, the girl’s 
words touched the kind old lady, and made her look 
anxiously at the eager young face gazing so wistfully 
into the fire. 

“ A good smart blowin’ up with the belluses would 
make the green stick burn most as well as the dry one 
after a spell. I guess contentedness is the best bellus 
for young folks, ef they would only think so.” 

“T dare say you are right, Aunty ; but I want to try 
for myself; and if I fail, 1711 come back and follow your 


8 WCRE. 


advice. Young folks always have discontented fits, you 
know. Didn’t you when you were a girl?” 

“ Shouldn’t wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, 
and I forgot ’em.” 

“ My Enos has not come along yet, and never may ; 
so |’m not going to sit and wait for any man to give me 
independence, if I can earn it for myself” And a 
quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner 
plainly betrayed that, in Christie’s opinion, Aunt Betsey 
made a bad bargain when she exchanged_her girlish 
aspirations for a man whose soul was in his pocket, 

“Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, dis- 
contented, and sot in her own idees. Poor capital to 
start a fortin’ on.” 

Christie’s eye met that of her uncle peering over the 
top of his paper with an expression that always tried 
her patience. Now it was like a dash of cold water on 
her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked quickly : 

“ How do you mean, sir?” 

“T mean that you are startin’ all wrong; your re- 
dic’lus notions about independence and self-cultur won’t 
come to nothin’ in the long run, and you’ll make as bad 
a failure of your life as your mother did of her’n.” 

“Please, don’t say that to me; I can’t bear it, for I 
shall never think her life a failure, because she tried to 
help herself; and married a good man in spite of pov- 
erty, when she loved him! You call that folly; but 
I’ll do the same if I can; and I’d rather have what iny 
father and mother left me, than all the money you are 
piling up, just for the pleasure of being richer than 
your neighbors.” 

“ Never mind, dear, he don’t mean no harm 
pered Aunt Betsey, fearing a storm. 


!” whise 


CHRISTIE. 9 


But though Christie’s eyes had kindled and her color 
deepened, her voice was low and steady, and her indig- 
nation was of the inward sort. 

“Uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and 
this is one reason why I want to go away before I get 
sharp and bitter and distrustful as he is. I don’t sup- 
pose I can make you understand my feeling, but I’d 
like to try, and then I’ll never speak of it again;” and, 
carefully controlling voice and face, Christie slowly 
added,\with a look that would have been pathetically 
eloquent to one who could have understood the instincts 
of a strong nature for light and freedom: } “You say I 
am i oontented: proud and ambitious; that’s true, and 
I’m glad of it. I am discontented, Henetiee I can’t help 
feeling that there is a better sort of life than this dull 
one made up of everlasting work, with no object but 
money. I can’t starve my soul for the sake of my 
body, and I mean to get out of the treadmill if I can. 
I’m proud, as you call it, because| I hate dependence 
where there isn’t any love to make it bearable. | You 
don’t say so in words, but I know you begrudgé me a 
home, though you will call me ungrateful when I’m 
gone. I’m willing to work, but I want work that I can 
put my heart into, and feel that it does me good, no 
matter how hard it is. I only ask for a chance to be a 
useful, happy woman, and I don’t think that is a bad 
ambition. Even if I only do what my dear mother did, 
earn my living honestly and happily, and leave a beau- 
tiful example behind me, to help one other woman as 
hers helps me, I shall be satisfied.” 

Christie’s voice faltered over the last words, for the 
thoughts and feelings which had been working within 

1* 


10 WORK. 


her during the last few days had stirred her deeply, and 
the resolution to cut loose from the old life had not 
been lightly made. Mr. Devon had listened behind his 
paper to this unusual outpouring with a sense of dis- 
comfort which was new to him. But though the words 
reproached and annoyed, they did not soften him, and 
when Christie paused with tearful eyes, her uncle rose, 
saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle: 

“ Ef I’d refused to let you go before, I’d agree to it 
now; for you need breakin’ in, my girl, and you are 
goin’ where you'll get it, so the sooner you’re off the 
better for all on us. Come, Betsey, we may as wal 
leave, for we can’t understand the wants of her higher 
nater, as Christie calls it, and we ’ve had lecterim’ enough 
for one night.” And with a grim laugh the old man 
quitted the field, worsted but in good order. 

“There, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all 
about it!” purred Aunt Betsey, as the heavy footsteps 
creaked away, for the good soul had a most old-fash- 
ioned and dutiful awe of her lord and master. 

“T shan’t ery but act; for it is high time I was off. 
I’ve stayed for your sake; now I’m more trouble than 
comfort, and away I go. Good-night, my dear old 
Aunty, and don’t look troubled, for I’1l be a lamb while 
I stay.” 

Having kissed the old lady, Christie swept her work 
away, and sat down to write the letter which was the 
first step toward freedom. When it was done, she 
drew nearer to her friendly confidante the fire, and till 
late into the night sat thinking tenderly of the past, 
bravely of the present, hopefully of the future. Twenty- 
one to-morrow, and her inheritance a head, a heart, a 


CHRISTIE. igi 


pair of hands; also the dower of most New England 
girls, intelligence, courage, and common sense, many 
practical gifts, and, hidden under the reserve that 
soon melts in a genial atmosphere, much romance-and 
enthusiasm, and the spirit which can rise to heroism ° 
when-the great moment comes. | 
. / Christie was one of that large class of women who, 
r “moderately endowed with talents, earnest and true- 
) hearted, are driven by necessity, temperament, or prin- 
ciple out into the world to find support, happiness, and 
Beomes for themselves. Many turn back discouraged 5 
amore accept shadow for substance, and discover ‘nee 
mistake too late; the weakest lose their purpose and 
oS but the strongest struggle on, and, after 
2 danger and defeat, earn at last the best success this 
ee can give us, the possession of a brave and cheer- 
ful spirit, rich in self-knowledge, self-control, self-help. 
This was the real desire of Christie’s heart ; this was to 
be her lesson and reward, and to this happy end she 
was slowly yet surely brought by the long discipline of 
life and labor./“ 

Sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strength- 
en herself with all the good and helpful memories she 
could recall, before she went away to find her place in 
the great unknown world. She thought of h-r mother, 
so like herself, who had borne the commonplace life of 
home till she could bear it no longer. Then had gone 
away to teach, as most country girls are forced to do. 
Had met, loved, and married a poor gentleman, and, 
after a few years of genuine happiness, untroubled even 
by much care and poverty, had followed him out of the 
world, leaving her little child to the protection of her 
brother. 


cf 


“oy 


Cd UY Med oS 


\ _— Ry he Ls ne 


HEL 


eae 


12 WORK. 


Christie looked back over the long, lonely years she 
had spent in the old farm-house, plodding to school and 
church, and doing her tasks with kind Aunt Betsey 
while a child; and slowly growing into girlhood, with 
a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry for 
love and a larger, nobler life. 

She had tried to appease this hunger in many ways, 
but found little help. Her father’s old books were all 
she could command, and these she wore out with much 


_reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she found noth- 
ing to attract her in the society of the commonplace 


and often coarse people about her. She tried to like 
the buxom girls whose one ambition was to “ get mar- 
ried,” and whose only subjects of conversation were 
“smart bonnets” and “nice dresses.” She tried to 
believe that the admiration and regard of the bluff 
young farmers was worth striving for; but sehen one 
well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feetj she found 
it impossible to accept for her life’s companion a man 
whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and big 


Sala 

Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece of 
folly, and Christie plainly saw that one of three things 
would surely happen, if she lived on there with no vent 
for her full heart and busy mind. She would either 
marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation, and become 
a, farmers household drudge ; settle down into a sour 
spinster, content to make butter, gossip, and lay up 
money all her days; or do what poor Matty Stone had 
done, try to crush and curb her needs and aspirations 
till the struggle grew too hard, and then in a fit of 
despair end her life, and leave a tragic story to haunt 


their quiet river. 


CHRISTIE. 13 


To escape these fates but one way appeared ; to break 
loose from this narrow life, go out into the world 
and see what she could do for herself. This idea was 
full of enchantment to the eager girl, and, after much 
earnest thought, she had resolved to try it. 

“Tf I fail, I can come back,” she said to herself, even 
while she scorned the thought of failure, for with all 
her shy pride she was both brave and ardent, and her 
dreams were of the rosiest sort. 

“T won't marry Joe; I won’t wear myself out in a 
district-school for the mean sum they give a woman; I 
won't delve away here where I’m not wanted; and I 
won't end my life like a coward, because it is dull and 
hard. Ill try my fate as mother did, and perhaps I 
may succeed as well.” And Christie’s thoughts went 
wandering away into the dim, sweet past when she, a 
happy child, lived with loving parents in a different 
world from that. 

Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old 
moon-faced clock behind the door struck twelve, then 
the visions vanished, leaving their benison behind them. 

As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a 
slender spire of flame shot up from the log that had 
blazed so cheerily, and shone upon her as she went. A 
good omen, gratefully accepted then, and remembered 
often in the years to come. / 


CHAPTER IL 
SERVANT. 


FORTNIGHT later, and Christic was off. Mrs. 
Flint had briefly answered that she had a room, 

and that work was always to be found in the city. So 
the girl packed her one trunk, folding away splendid 
hopes among her plain gowns, and filling every corner 
with happy fangies, utterly impossible plans, and tender 
little mney lovely at the time, so pathetic to re- 
member, when contact with the hard realities of life 
has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the frost of disap-/ 
pointment nipped all our morning glories in their prime. 

The old red stage stopped at Enos Devon’s door, 
and his niece crossed the threshold after a cool hand- 
shake with the master of the house, and a close em- 
brace with the mistress, who stood pouring out last 
words with spectacles too dim for seeing. Fat Ben 
swung up the trunk, slammed the door, mounted his 
perch, and the ancient vehicle swayed with premonitory 
symptoms of departure. 

Then something smote Christie’s heart. “Stop!” 
_ she cried, and springing out ran back into the dismal 
room where the old man sat. Straight up to him she 
went with outstretched hand, saying steadily, though 
her face was full of feeling: 


SERVANT. 15 


“Uncle, I’m not satisfied with that good-bye. I 
don’t mean to be sentimental, but I do want to s say, 
‘Forgive me!’ I see now that I might have made you 
sorry to part with me, if I had tried to make you love 
me more. It’s too late now, but I’m not too proud to 
confess when I’m wrong. I want to part kindly; I ask 
your pardon; I thank you for all you’ve done for me, 
and I say good-bye affectionately now.” 

Mr. Devon had a heart somewhere, though it seldom 
troubled him; but it did make itself felt when the girl 
looked at on with his dead sister’s eyes, and spoke in 
a tone whose unaccustomed tenderness was a reproach. 

Conscience had pricked him more than once that 
week, and he was glad to own it now; his rough sense 
of honor was touched by her frank expression, and, as 
he answered, his hand was offered readily. 

“T like that, Kitty, and think the better of you for’t 
Let bygones be bygones. I gen’lly got as good as I 
give, and I guess I deserved some on’t. I wish you’ 
wal, my girl, I heartily wish you wal, and hope you 
won't forgit that the old house ain’t never shet aginst 
you.” 

Christie astonished him with a cordial kiss; then 
bestowing another warm hug on Aunt Niobe, as she 
called the old lady in a tearful joke, she ran into the 
carriage, taking with her all the sunshine of the 
place. 

Christie found Mrs. Flint a dreary woman, with 
“boarders” written all over her sour face and faded 
figure. Butcher’s bills and house rent seemed to fill 
her eyes with sleepless anxiety; thriftless cooks and 
saucy housemaids to sharpen the tones of her shrill 


16 WORK. 


- voice; and an incapable husband to burden her shoul- 
ders like a modern “ Old man of the sea.” 

A little room far up in the tall house was at the girl’s 
disposal for a reasonable sum, and she took possession, 
feeling very rich with the hundred dollars Uncle Enos 
gave her, and delightfully independent, with no milk- 
pans to scald; no heavy lover to elude; no humdrum 
district school to imprison her day after day. 

For a week she enjoyed her liberty heartily, then set 
about finding something to do. Her wish was to be a 
governess, that being the usual refuge for respectable 
girls who have a living to get. But Christie soon found 
her want of accomplishments a barrier to success in 
that line, for the mammas thought less of the solid than 
of the ornamental branches, and wished their litle dar- 
lings to learn French before English, music before 
grammar, and drawing before writing. 

So, after several disappointments, Christie decided 
‘that her education was too old-fashioned for the city, 
and gave up the idea of teaching. Sewing she resolved 
not to try till every thing else failed; and, after a few 
more attempts to get writing to do, she said to herself, 
in a fit of humility and good sense: “I’ll begin at the 
beginning, and work my way up. Ill put my pride in 
my pocket, and go out to service. Housework I like, 
and can do well, thanks to Aunt Betsey. I never 
thought it degradation to do it for her, so why should 
I mind doing it for others if they pay for it? It isn’t 
what I want, but it’s better than idleness, so Ill try it!” 

Full of this wise resolution, she took to haunting that 
purgatory of the poor, an intelligence office. Mrs. 
Flint gave her a recommendation, and she hopefully 


SERVANT. Li 


took her place among the ranks of buxom German, 
incapable Irish, and “ smart” American women; for in | 
those days foreign help had not driven farmers’ daugh- | 
ters out of the field, and made domestic comfort a lost | 
art. 

At first Christie enjoyed the novelty of the thing, 
and watched with interest the anxious housewives who 
flocked in demanding that rara avis, an angel at nine 
shillings a week; and not finding it, bewailed the 
degeneracy of the times. Being too honest to profess 
herself absolutely perfect in every known branch of 
house-work, it was some time before she suited herself 
Meanwhile, she was questioned and lectured, half en- 
gaged and kept waiting, dismissed for a whim, and so 
worried that she began to regard herself as the incar- 
nation of all human vanities and shortcomings. 

“ A desirable place in a small, genteel family,” was at 
last offered her, and she posted away to secure it, having 
reached a state of desperation and resolved to go as a 
first-class cook rather than sit with her hands before her 
any longer. 

A well-appointed house, good wages, and light duties 
seemed things to be grateful for, and Christie decided 
that going out to service was not the hardest fate in 
life, as she stood at the door of a handsome house in a 
sunny square waiting to be inspected. 

Mrs. Stuart, having just returned from Italy, affected 
the artistic, and the new applicant found her with a 
Roman scarf about her head, a rosary like a string of 
small cannon balls at her side, and azure draperies 
which became her as well as they did the sea-green 
furniture of her marine boudoir, where unwary walkers 


B 


WORK. 


18 


eulfing every sort of 


tripped over coral and shells, grew sea-sick looking at 
of tempestuous billows en 


pictures 


f-war to a hencoop with a ghostly 
ging to it with one hand, and had their 


-0 
ally ta 


from a man 


craft, 
youn 


@ lady clin 
appetites effectu 


a choice collection 


away by 


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a os 
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Be 
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ro at 


Mrs. STUART. 


me ok SERVANT. 19 
We 

Madame was intent on a water-color copy of Turner’s 
“Rain, Wind, and Hail,” that pleasing work which was 
sold upsidedown and no one found it out. Motioning 
Christie to a seat she finished some delicate sloppy 
process before speaking. In that little pause Christie 
examined her, and the impression then received was 
afterward confirmed. 

Mrs. Stuart possessed some beauty and chose to think 
herself a queen of society. She assumed majestic man- 
ners in public and could not entirely divest herself of 
them in private, which often produced comic effects. 
Zenobia troubled about fish-sauce, or Aspasia indignant 
at the price of eggs will give some idea of this lady 
when she condescended to the cares of housekeeping. 

Presently she looked up and inspected the girl as if 
a new servant were no more than a new bonnet, a 
necessary article to be ordered home for examination. 
Christie presented her recommendation, made her mod- 
est little speech, and awaited her doom. 

Mrs. Stuart read, listened, and then demanded with 
queenly brevity: 

“ Your name?” 

* Christie Devon.” 

“Too long; I should prefer to call you Jane as I am 
accustomed to the name.” 

“ As you please, ma’am.” 

“ Your age ?” 

“ Twenty-one.” 

“You are an American?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Stuart gazed into space a moment, then deliv- 
ered the following address with impressive solemnity. 


co 


20 WORK. 


“JT wish a capable, intelligent, honest, neat, well-con, 
ducted person who knows her place and keeps it. The 
work is light, as there are but two in the family. I am 
very particular and so is Mr. Stuart. I pay two dollars 
and a half, allow one afternoon out, one service on Sun- 
day, and no followers. My table-girl must understand 
her duties thoroughly, be extremely neat, and always 
wear white aprons.” 

“T think I can suit you, ma’am, when I have learned 
the ways of the house,” meekly replied Christie. 

Mrs. Stuart looked graciously satisfied and returned 
the paper with a gesture that Victoria might have used 
in restoring a granted petition, though her next words 
rather marred the effect of the regal act, “ My cook is 
black.” 

“ T have no objection to color, ma’am.” 

An expression of relief dawned upon Mrs. Stuart’s 
countenance, for the black cook had been an insur- 
mountable obstacle to all the Irish ladies who had 
applied. Thoughtfully tapping her Roman nose with 
the handle of her brush Madame took another survey 
of the new applicant, and seeing that she looked neat, 
intelligent, and respectful, gave a sigh of thankfulness 
and engaged her on the spot. 

Much elated Christie rushed home, selected a bag of 
necessary articles, bundled the rest of her possessions 
into an empty closet (lent her rent-free owing to a pro- 
fusion of cockroaches), paid up her board, and at two 
o’clock introduced herself to Hepsey Johnson, her fellow 
servant. 

Hepsey was a tall, gaunt woman, bearing the tragedy 
of her race written in her face, with its melancholy 


SERVANT. 21 


eyes, subdued expression, and the pathetic patience of 
a wronged dumb animal. She received Christie with 
an air of resignation, and speedily bewildered her with 
an account of the duties she would be expected to per- 
form. 

A long and careful drill enabled Christie to set the 
table with but few mistakes, and to retain a tolerably 
clear recollection of the order of performances. She 
had just assumed her badge of servitude, as she-ealled— 
the white apron, when the Wee rang jeclently and Hep. 
sey, who was ‘hurrying away to “dish up,” said: 

“Jt’s de marster. You has to answer de bell, honey, 
and he likes it done bery spry.” 

Christie ran and admitted an impetuous, stout gentle. 
man, who appeared to be incensed against the elements, 
for he burst in as if blown, shook himself like a New- 
foundland dog, and said all in one breath: 

“You’re the new girl, are you? Well, take my 
umbrella and pull off my rubbers.” 

4 Sir ? 92 

Mr. Stuart was struggling with his gloves, and, quite 
unconscious of the astonishment of his new maid, impa- 
tiently repeated his request. 

“Take this wet thing away, and pull off my over- 
shoes. Don’t you see it’s raining like the very 
deuce!” 

Christie folded her lips together in a peculiar manner 
as she knelt down and removed a pair of muddy over- 
shoes, took the dripping umbrella, and was walking 
away with her agreeable burden when Mr. Stuart gave 
her another shock by calling over the banister : 

“T’m going out again; so clean those rubbers, and 


22 WORK. 


see that the boots I sent down this morning are in 
order.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Christie meekly, and imme- 
diately afterward startled Hepsey by casting overshoes 
and umbrella upon the kitchen floor, and indignantly 
demanding : 

« Am I expected to be a boot-jack to that man?” 

“TJ ’spects you is, honey.” 

“« Am I also expected to clean his boots?” 

“Yes, chile. Katy did, and de work ain’t hard when 
you gits used to it.” 

“Tt isn’t the work; it’s the degradation; and I won’t 
submit to it.” 

Christie looked fiercely determined; but Hepsey 
shook her head, saying quietly as she went on garnish- 


ing a dish: 


} 


f 
\ 


i 
| 


H 
i 


“Dere’s more ’gradin’ works dan dat, chile, and dem 
dat’s bin ’bliged to do um finds dis sort bery easy. 
You’s paid for it, honey; and if you does it willin, it 
won’t hurt you more dan washin’ de marster’s dishes, or 
sweepin’ his rooms.” 

“There ought to be a boy to do this sort of thing. 
Do you think it’s right to ask it of me ?” cried Christie, 
feeling that being servant was not as pleasant a task as 
she had thought it. 

“Dunno, chile. I’se shore I’d never ask it of any 


/woman if I was a man,’less I was sick or ole. But 


folks don’t seem to ’member dat we’ve got feelin’s, and 


' de best way is not to mind dese ere little trubbles. 


' 


| You jes leave de boots to me; blackin’ can’t do dese 


\ ole hands no hurt, and dis ain’t no deggydation to me 


\ 
now; I’s a free woman.” 


SERVANT. 23 


“* Why, Hepsey, were you ever a slave?” asked the 
girl, forgetting her-own- small injury at this suggestion 
of the greatest of all wrongs. 

“ All my life, till I run away five year ago. My ole 
folks, and eight brudders and sisters, is down dere in de 
pit now, waitin’ for the Lord to set ’em free. And He’s 
gwine to do it soon, soon/” <As she uttered the last 
words, a sudden light chased the tragic shadow from 
Hepsey’s face, and the solemn fervor of her voice 
thrilled Christie’s heart. All her anger died out in a 
great pity, and she put her hand on the woman’s shoul- 
der, saying earnestly: 

“IT hope so; and I wish I could help to bring that 
happy day at once!” 

For the first time Hepsey smiled, as she said grate- 
fully, “De Lord bress you for dat wish, chile.” Then, 
dropping suddenly into her old, quiet way, she added, 
turning to her work: 

“ Now you tote up de dinner, and I’]l be handy by to 
"fresh your mind ’bout how de dishes goes, for missis is 
bery ’ticular, and don’t like no ’stakes in tendin’.” 

Thanks to her own neat-handed ways and Hepsey’s 
prompting through the slide, Christie got on very well; 


managed her salvey dexterously, only upset one glass. 


clashed one dish-cover, and forgot to sugar the pie 
before putting it on the table; an omission which was 
majestically pointed out, and graciously pardoned as a 
first offence. 

By seven o’clock the ceremonial was fairly over, and 
Christie dropped into a chair quite tired out with fre- 
quent pacings to and fro. In the kitchen she found the 
table spread for one, and Hepsey busy with the boots. 


x 


24 WORK. 


“ Aren’t you coming to your dinner, Mrs. Johnson ?” 
she asked, not pleased at the arrangement. 

“ When you’s done, honey ; dere’s no hurry ’bout me. 
Katy liked dat way best, and I’se used ter waitin’.” 

“ But Z don’t like that way, and I won’t have it. I 
suppose Katy thought her white skin gave her a right 
to be disrespectful to a woman old enough to be her 
_mother just because she was black. I don’t; and while 
I’m here, there must be no difference made. If we can 
work together, we can eat together; and because you 
have been a slave is all the more reason I should be 
good to you now.” 

If Hepsey had been surprised by the new gitl’s pro- 
test against being made a boot-jack of, she was still 
more surprised at this sudden kindness, for she had set 
Christie down in her own mind as “ one ob dem toppin’ 
smart ones dat don’t stay long nowheres.” She changed 
her opinion now, and sat watching the girl with a new 
expression on her face, as Christie took boot and brush: | 
from her, and fell to work energetically, saying as she. | 
scrubbed : A 

“T’m ashamed of complaining about such a little 
thing as this, and don’t mean to feel degraded by it, 
though I should by letting you do it for me. I never 
lived out before: that’s the reason I made a fuss. 
There’s a polish, for you, and I’m in a good humor 
again; so Mr. Stuart may call for his boots whenever 
he likes, and we’ll go to dinner like fashionable people, 
as we are.” 

There was something so irresistible in the girl’s hearty 
manner, that Hepsey submitted at once with a visible 
satisfaction, which gave a relish to Christie’s dinner, 


SERVANT. 29 


though it was eaten at a kitchen table, with a bare- 
armed cook sitting opposite, and three rows of bur- 
nished dish-covers reflecting the dreadful spectacle. 
After this, Christie got on excellently, for she did her 
best, and found both pleasure and profit in her new 
employment. It gave her real satisfaction to keep the 
handsome rooms in order, to polish plate, and spread 
bountiful meals. There was an atmosphere of ease 
and comfort about her which contrasted agreeably with 
the shabbiness of Mrs. Flint’s boarding-house, and the 
bare simplicity of the old home. Like most young 
people, Christie loved luxury, and was sensible enough 
to see and value the comforts of her situation, and to 
wonder why more girls placed as she was did not 
choose a life like this rather than the confinements of a 


sewing-room, or the fatigue and publicity of a shop. ~ 


She did not learn to love her mistress, because Mrs. 
Stuart evidently considered herself as one belonging to 
a superior race of beings, and had no desire to establish 
any of the friendly relations that may become so help- 
ful and pleasant to both mistress and maid. She made 
a royal progress through her dominions every morning, 
issued orders, found fault liberally, bestowed praise 
sparingly, and took no more personal interest in her ser- 
vants than if they were clocks, to be wound up once a 
day, and sent away the moment they got out of repair. 

Mr. Stuart was absent from morning till night, and 
all Christie ever knew about him was that he was a 
kind-hearted, hot-tempered, and very conceited man; 
fond of his wife, proud of the society they managed to 
draw about them, and bent on making his way in the 
world at any cost. 


26 WORK. 


If masters and mistresses knew how skilfully they 
are studied, criticised, and imitated by their servants, 
they would take more heed to their ways, and set 
better examples, perhaps. Mrs. Stuart never dreamed 
that her quiet, respectful Jane kept a sharp eye on all 
her movements, smiled covertly at her affectations, 
envied her accomplishments, and practised certain little 
elegancies that struck her fancy. 

Mr. Stuart would have become apoplectic with indig- 
nation if he had known that this too intelligent table- 
girl often contrasted her master with his guests, and 
dared to think him wanting in good breeding when he 
boasted of his money, flattered a great man, or laid 
plans to lure some lion into his house. When he lost 
his temper, she always wanted to laugh, he bounced 
and bumbled about so like an angry blue-bottle fly ; 
and when he got himself up elaborately for a party, 
this disrespectful hussy confided to Hepsey her opinion 
that “master was a fat dandy, with nothing to be vain 
of but his clothes,’—a sacrilegious remark which 
would have caused her to be summarily ejected from 
the house if it had reached the august ears of master 
or mistress. 


“My father was a gentleman; and [I shall never for- . 
get it, though I do go out to service. I’ve got no rich ¢ 
friends to help me up, but, sooner or later, I mean to | 
find a place among cultivated people; and while I’m , 


’ 


working and waiting, I can be fitting myself to fill that \ 


place like a gentlewoman, as I am.” 

With this ambition in her mind, Christie took notes 
of all that went on in the polite world, of which she 
got frequent glimpses while “living out.” Mrs. Stuart 


V 


SERVANT. 27 


received one evening of each week, and on these occa- 
sions Christie, with an extra frill on her white apron, 
served the company, and enjoyed herself more than 
they did, if the truth had been known. 

While helping the ladies with their wraps, she 
observed what they wore, how they carried them- 
selves, and what a vast amount of prinking they did, 
not to mention the flood of gossip they talked while 
shaking out their flounces and settling their topknots. 

Later in the evening, when she passed cups and 
glasses, this demure-looking damsel heard much fine 
discourse, saw many famous beings, and improved her 
mind with surreptitious studies of the rich and great 
when on parade. But her best time was after supper, 
when, through the crack of the door of the little room 
where she was supposed to be clearing away the relics 
of the feast, she looked and listened at her ease; 
laughed at the wits, stared at the lions, heard the music, 
was impressed by the wisdom, and much edified by the 
gentility of the whole affair. 

After a time, however, Christie got rather tired of it, 
for there was an elegant sameness about these evenings 
that became intensely wearisome to the uninitiated, but 
she fancied that as each had his part to play he man- 
aged to do it with spirit. Night after night the wag 
told his stories, the poet read his poems, the singers 
-warbled, the pretty women simpered and dressed, the 
heavy scientific was duly discussed by the elect precious, 
and Mrs. Stuart, in amazing costumes, sailed to and fro 
in her most swan-like manner; while my lord stirred 
up the lions he had captured, till they roared their best, 
great and small. 


28 WORK. 


“ Good heavens! why don’t they do or say something 
new and interesting, and not keep twaddling on about 
art, and music, and poetry, and cosmos? ‘The papers 
are full of appeals for help for the poor, reforms of all 
sorts, and splendid work that others are doing; but 
these people seem to think it isn’t genteel enough to be 
spoken of here. I suppose it is all very elegant to go 
on like a set of trained canaries, but it’s very dull fun 
to watch them, and Hepsey’s stories are a deal more 
interesting to me.” 

Having come to this conclusion, after studying dilet- 
tanteism through the crack of the door for some months, 
Christie left the “trained canaries” to twitter and hop 
about their gilded cage, and devoted herself to Hepsey, 
who gave her glimpses into another sort of life so bit- 
terly real that she never could forget it. 


HEPSEY. 


Friendship had prospered in the lower regions, for 
Hepsey had a motherly heart, and Christie soon won 


SERVANT. 29 


her confidence by bestowing her own. Her story was 
like many another; yet, being the first Christie had 
ever heard, and told with the unconscious eloquence of 
one who had suffered and escaped, it made a deep im- 
pression on her, bringing home to her a sense of obliga- 
tion so forcibly that she began at once to pay a little 
part of the great debt which the white race owes the 
black. 

Christie loved books; and the attic next her own was 
full of them. ‘To this store she found her way by a sort 
of instinct as sure as that which leads a fly to a honey- 
pot, and, finding many novels, she read her fill. This 
amusement lightened many heavy hours, peopled the 
silent house with troops of friends, and, for a time, was 
the joy of her life. 

Hepsey used to watch her as she sat buried in her 
book when the day’s work was done, and once a heavy 
sigh roused Christie from the most exciting crisis of 
“The Abbot.” 

“ What’s the matter? Are you very tired, Aunty?” 
she asked, using the name that came most readily to 
her lips. 

“No, honey; I was only wishin’ I could read fast 
like you does. I’s berry slow ’bout readin’ and I want 
to learn a heap,” answered Hepsey, with such a wistful 
look in her soft eyes that Christie shut her book, saying 
briskly : 

“Then Ill teach you. Bring out your primer and 
let’s begin at once.” 

“Dear chile, it’s orful hard work to put learnin’ in 
my ole head, and I wouldn’t ’cept such a ting from you 
only [ needs dis sort of help so bad, and I can trust you 
to gib it to me as I wants it.” 


30 WORK. 


Then in a whisper that went straight to Christie’s 
heart, Hepsey told her plan and showed what help she 
craved. 

For five years she had worked hard, and saved her 
earnings for the purpose of her life. When a consider- 
able sum had been hoarded up, she confided it to one 
whom she believed to be a friend, and sent him to buy 
her old mother. But he proved false, and she never 
saw either mother or money. It was a hard blow, but 
she took heart and went to work again, resolving this 
time to trust no one with the dangerous part of the 
affair, but when she had scraped together enough to pay 
her way she meant to go South and steal her mother at 
the risk of her life. 

“YT don’t want much money, but I must know little 
*bout readin’ and countin’ up, else I’ll get lost and 
cheated. You’ll help me do dis, honey, and I’ll bless 
you all my days, and so will my old mammy, if I ever 


gets her safe away.” 


With tears of sympathy shining on her cheeks, and 
both hands stretched out to the poor soul who implored 
this small boon of her, Christie promised all the help 
that in her lay, and kept her word religiously. 


[From _that time, Hepsey’s cause was hers; she laid 
bra part oF bee pace tor ole aay,” she com- 
forted Hepsey with happy prophecies of success, and 
taught with an energy and skill she had never known 


before. Novels lost their charms now, for Hepsey could 
vive her a comedy and tragedy surpassing any thing 


she found in them, because truth stamped her tales with 
/a power and pathos the most gifted fancy could but 


poorly imitate. 


SERVANT. ; 31 


The select receptions upstairs seemed duller than 
ever to her now, and her happiest evenings were spent 
in the tidy kitchen, watching Hepsey laboriously shap- 
ing A’s and B’s, or counting up on her worn fingers the 
wages they had earned by months of weary work, that 
she might purchase one treasure, — a feeble, old woman, 
worn out with seventy years of slavery far away there 
in Virginia. 

For a year Christie was a faithful servant to her 
mistress, who appreciated her virtues, but did not 
encourage them; a true friend to poor Hepsey, who 
loved her dearly, and found in her sympathy and affec- 
tion a solace for many griefs and wrongs. But Provi- 
dence had other lessons for Christie, and when this one 
was well learned \she was sent away to learn another 
phase of woman’s 

While their arabes amused t iiam@elvee with privy 
conspiracy and rebellion at home, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart 
spent their evenings in chasing that bright bubble 
called social success, and usually came home rather 
cross because they could not catch it. 

On one of these occasions they received a warm 
welcome, for, as they approached the house, smoke was 
seen issuing from an attic window, and flames flickering 
behind the half-drawn curtain. Bursting out of the 
carriage with his usual impetuosity, Mr. Stuart let him- 
self in and tore upstairs shouting “Fire!” like an 
engine company. 

In the attic Christie was discovered lying dressed 
upon her bed, asleep or suffocated by the smoke that 
filled the room. A book had slipped from her hand, 
and in falling had upset the candle on a chair beside 


32 WORK. 


her; the long wick leaned against a cotton gown hang- 
ing on the wall, and a greater part of Christie’s ward- 
robe was burning brilliantly. 

“T forbade her to keep the gas lighted so late, and 
see what the deceitful creature has done with her pri- 
vate candle!” cried Mrs. Stuart with a shrillness that 
roused the girl from her heavy sleep more effectually 
than the anathemas Mr. Stuart was fulminating against 
the fire. } 

Sitting up she looked dizzily about her. The smoke 
was clearing fast, a window having been opened; and 
the tableau was a striking one. Mr. Stuart with an 
excited countenance was dancing frantically on a heap 
of half-consumed clothes pulled from the wall. He had 
not only drenched them with water from bowl and 
pitcher, but had also cast those articles upon the pile 
like extinguishers, and was skipping among the frag- 
ments with an agility which contrasted with his stout 
figure in full evening costume, and his besmirched face, 
made the sight irresistibly ludicrous. 

Mrs. Stuart, though in her most regal array, seemed 
to have left her dignity downstairs with her opera 
cloak, for with skirts gathered closely about her, tiara 
all askew, and face full of fear and anger, she stood 
upon a chair and scolded like any shrew. 

The comic overpowered the tragic, and being a little 
hysterical with the sudden alarm, Christie broke into a 
peal of laughter that sealed her fate. 

“ Look at her! look at her!” cried Mrs. Stuart gestic- 
ulating on her perch as if about to fly. “She has been 
at the wine, or lost her wits. She must go, Horatio, 
she must go! I cannot have my nerves shattered by 


SERVANT. 3h 


such dreadful scenes. She is too fond of books, and it 
has turned her brain. Hepsey can watch her to-night, 
and at dawn she shall leave the house for ever.” 

“Not till after breakfast, my dear. Let us have that 
in comfort I beg, for upon my soul we shall need it,” 
panted Mr. Stuart, sinking into a chair exhausted with 
the vigorous measures which had quenched the con- 
flagration. 

Christie checked her untimely mirth, explained the 
probable cause of the mischief, and penitently promised 
to be more careful for the future. ) 

Mr. Stuart would have pardoned her on the spot, but 
Madame was inexorable, for she had so completely for- 
gotten her dignity that she felt it would be impossible 
ever to recover it in the eyes of this disrespectful 
menial. Therefore she dismissed her with a lecture 
that made both mistress and maid glad to part. 

She did not appear at breakfast, and after that meal 
Mr. Stuart paid Christie her wages with a solemnity 
which proved that he had taken a curtain lecture to 
heart. There was a twinkle in his eye, however, as he 
kindly added a recommendation, and after the door 
closed behind him Christie was sure that he exploded 
into a laugh at the recollection of his last night’s per- 
formance. 

This lightened her sense of disgrace very much, so, 
leaving a part of her money to repair damages, she 
packed up her dilapidated wardrobe, and, making Hep- 
sey promise to report progress from time to time, Chris- 
tie went back to Mrs. Flint’s to compose her mind and 
be ready @ la Micawber “ for something to turn up.” 

2* Cc 


CHAPTER IIi. 
ACTRESS. 


EELING that she had all the world before her 
where to choose, and that her next step ought to 
take her up at least one round higher on the ladder she 
was climbing, Christie decided not to try going out to 
service again. She knew very well that she would 
never live with Irish mates, and could not expect to 
find another Hepsey. So she tried to get a place as 
companion to an invalid, but failed to secure the only 
situation of the sort that was offered her, because she 
mildly objected to waiting on a nervous cripple all day, 
and reading aloud half the night. The old lady called 
her an “impertinent baggage,” and Christie retired in 
great disgust, resolving not to be a slave to anybody. 

Things seldom turn out as we plan them, and after 
much waiting and hoping for other work Christie at 
last accepted about the only employment which had 
not entered her mind. 

Among the boarders at Mrs. Flint’s were an old lady 
and her pretty daughter, both actresses at a respectable 
theatre. Not stars by any means, but good second-rate 
players, doing their work creditably and earning an 
honest living. The mother had been kind to Christie 
in offering advice, and sympathizing with her disap- 


ACTRESS. 35 


pointments. The daughter, a gay little lass, had taken 
Christie to the theatre several times, there to behold 
her in all the gauzy glories that surround the nymphs 
of spectacular romance. 

To Christie this was a great delight, for, though she 
had pored over her father’s Shakespeare till she knew 
many scenes by heart, she had never seen a play till 
Lucy led her into what seemed an enchanted world. 
Her interest and admiration pleased the little actress, 
and sundry lifts when she was hurried with her dresses 
made her grateful to Christie. 

The girl’s despondent face, as she came in day after 
day from her unsuccessful quest, told its own story, 
though she uttered no complaint, and these friendly 
souls laid their heads together, eager to help her in 
their own dramatic fashion. 

“T’ve got it! ‘I’ve got it! All hail to the queen!” 
was the cry that one day startled Christie as she sat 
thinking anxiously, while sewing mock-pearls on a 
crown for Mrs. Black. 

Looking. up she saw Lucy just home from rehearsal, 
going through a series of pantomimic evolutions sug- 
gestive of a warrior doing battle with incredible valor, 
and avery limited knowledge of the noble art of self- 
defence. 

“What have you got? Who is the queen?” she 
asked, laughing, as the breathless hero lowered her 
umbrella, and laid her bonnet at Christie’s feet. 

“ You are to be the Queen of the Amazons in our 
new spectacle, at half a dollar a night for six or eight 
weeks, if the piece goes well.” . 

“ No!” cried Christie, with a gasp. 


36 WORK. 


“Yes!” cried Lucy, clapping her hands; and then 
she proceeded to tell her news with theatrical volubil- 
ity. “Mr. Sharp, the manager, wants a lot of tallish 
girls, and I told him. I knew of a perfect dear. He 
said: ‘ Bring her on, then,’ and I flew home to tell you. 
Now, don’t look wild, and say no. You’ve only got to 
sing in one chorus, march in the grand procession, and 
lead your band in the terrific battle-scene. The dress 
is splendid! Red tunic, tiger-skin over shoulder, helmet, 
shield, lance, fleshings, sandals, hair down, and as much 
cork to your eyebrows as you like.” 

Christie certainly did look wild, for Lucy had burst 
into the room like a small hurricane, and her rapid 
words rattled about the listeners’ ears as if a hail-storm 
had followed the gust. While Christie still sat with 
her mouth open, too bewildered to reply, Mrs. Black 
said in her cosey voice: 

“Try it, me dear, it’s just what you'll enjoy, and a 
capital beginning I assure ye; for if you do well old 
Sharp will want you again, and then, when some one 
slips out of the company, you can slip in, and there you 
are quite comfortable. Try it, me dear, and if you 
don’t like it drop it when the piece is over, and there’s 
no harm done.” 

“It’s much easier and jollier than any of the things 
you are after. We’ll stand by you like bricks, and in a 
week youll say it’s the best lark you ever had in your 
life. Don’t be prim, now, but say yes, like a trump, as 
you are,” added Lucy, waving a pink satin train tempt- 
ingly before her friend. 

“J will try it!” said Christie, with sudden decision, 
feeling that something entirely new and absorbing was 


ACTRESS. yi 


what she needed to expend the vigor, romance, and 
enthusiasm of her youth upon. 

With a shriek of delight Lucy swept her off her 
chair, and twirled her about the room as excitable 
young ladies are fond of doing when their joyful emo- 
tions need avent. When both were giddy they sub- 
sided into a corner and a breathless discussion of the 
important step. 

Though she had consented, Christie had endless 
doubts and fears, but Lucy removed many of the former, 
and her own desire for pleasant employment conquered 
many of the latter. In her most despairing moods she 
had never thought of trying this. Uncle Enos consid- 
ered “play-actin’” as the sum of all iniquity. What 
would he say if she went calmly to destruction by that 
road? Sad to relate, this recollection rather strength- 
ened her purpose, for a delicious sense of freedom per- 
vaded her soul, and the old defiant spirit seemed to rise 
up within her at the memory of her Uncle’s grim 
prophecies and narrow views. 

“ Lucy is happy, virtuous, and independent, why can 
I be so too if I have any talent? It isn’t exactly wha« 
I should choose, but any thing honest is better thar 
idleness. [ll try it any way, and get a little fun, ever 
if I don’t make much money or glory out of it.” 

So Christie held to her resolution in spite of many 
secret misgivings, and followed Mrs. Black’s advice on 
all points with a docility which caused that sanguine 
lady to predict that she would be a star before she 
knew where she was. 

“Is this the stage? How dusty and dull it is by 
daylight!” said Christie next day, as she stood by Lucy 


38 WORK. 


on the very spot where she had seen Hamlet die in 
great anguish two nights before. 

“ Bless you, child, it’s in curl-papers now, as I am of 
a morning. Mr. Sharp, here’s an Amazon for you.” 

As she spoke, Lucy hurried across the stage, followed 
by Christie, wearing ‘any thing but an Amazonian 
expression just then. 

“Kver on before?” abruptly asked a keen-faced, 
little man, glancing with an experienced eye at the 
young person who stood before him bathed in blushes. 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Do you sing?” 

“ A little, sir.” 

“ Dance, of course ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Just take a turn across the stage, will you? Must 
walk well to lead a march.” 

As she went, Christie heard Mr. Sharp taking notes 
audibly : 

v “Good tread; capital figure; fine eye. She’ll make 
up well, and behave herself, I fancy.” 

A strong desire to make off seized the girl; but, 

emembering that she had presented herself for inspec- 
tion, she controlled the impulse, and returned to him 
( with no demonstration of displeasure, but a little more 
fire in “ the fine eye,” and a more erect carriage of the 
“capital figure.” 

“ All right, my dear. Give your name to Mr. Tripp, 
and your mind to the business, and consider yourself 
engaged,” — with which satisfactory remark the little 
man vanished like a ghost. 

“Lucy, did you hear that impertinent ‘my dear’?” 


ACTRESS. 39 


asked Christie, whose sense of propriety had received 
its first shock. 

“Lord, child, all managers do it. They don’t mean 
any thing; so be resigned, and thank your stars he 
didn’t say ‘love’ and ‘darling, and kiss you, as old 
Vining used to,” was all the sympathy she got. 

Having obeyed orders, Lucy initiated her into the’ 
mysteries of the place, and then put her in a corner to 
look over the scenes in which she was to appear. Chris- 
tie soon caught the idea of her part, — not a difficult 
- matter, as there were but few ideas in the whole piece, 
after which she sat watching the arrival of the troop 
she was to lead. A most forlorn band of warriors they 
seemed, huddled together, and looking as if afraid to 
speak, lest they should infringe some rule; or to move, 
lest they be swallowed up by some unsuspected trap- 
door. 

Presently the ballet-master appeared, the orchestra 
struck up, and Christie found herself marching and 
counter-marching at word of command. At first, a 
most uncomfortable sense of the absurdity of her posi- 
tion oppressed and confused her; then the ludicrous 
contrast between the solemn anxiety of the troop and 
the fantastic evolutions they were performing amused 
her till the novelty wore off; the martial music excited 
her; the desire to please sharpened her wits; and 
natural grace made it easy for her to catch and copy 
the steps and poses given her to imitate. Soon she 
forgot herself, entered into the spirit of the thing, and 
exerted every sense to please, so successfully that Mr. 
Tripp praised her quickness at comprehension, Lucy 
‘applauded heartily from a fairy car, and Mr. Sharp 


40 WORK. 


popped his head out of a palace window to watch the 
Amazon’s descent from the Mountains of the Moon. 

When the regular company arrived, the troop was 
dismissed till the progress of the play demanded their 
reappearance. Much interested in the piece, Christie 
stood aside under a palm-tree, the foliage of which was 
strongly suggestive of a dilapidated green umbrella, 
enjoying the novel sights and sounds about her. 

Yellow-faced gentlemen and sleepy-eyed ladies roamed 
languidly about with much incoherent jabbering of 
parts, and frequent explosions of laughter. Princes, 
with varnished boots and suppressed cigars, fought, 
bled, and died, without a change of countenance. 
Damsels of unparalleled beauty, according to the text, 
gaped in the faces of adoring lovers, and crocheted 
serenely on the brink of annihilation. Fairies, in rub- 
ber-boots and woollen head-gear, disported themselves 
on flowery barks of canvas, or were suspended aloft 
with hooks in their backs like young Hindoo devotees. 
Demons, guiltless of hoof or horn, clutched their victims 
with the inevitable “Ha! ha!” and vanished darkly, 
eating pea-nuts. The ubiquitous Mr. Sharp seemed to 
pervade the whole theatre; for his voice came shrilly 
from above or spectrally from below, and his active 
little figure darted to and fro like a critical will-o-the- 
wisp. 

The grand march and chorus in the closing scene 
were easily accomplished ; for, as Lucy bade her, Chris- 
tie “sung with all her might,” and kept step as she led 
her -band with the dignity of a Boadicea. No one 
spoke to her; few observed her; all were intent on 
their own affairs; and when the final shriek and bang 


ACTRESS. 41 


died away without lifting the roof by its din, she could 
hardly believe that the dreaded first rehearsal was 
safely over. 

A visit to the wardrobe-room to see her dress came 
next; and here Christie had a slight skirmish with the 
mistress of that department relative to the length of 
her classical garments. As studies from the nude had 
not yet become one of the amusements of the élite of 
Little Babel, Christie was not required to appear in the 
severe simplicity of a costume consisting of a necklace, 
sandals, and a bit of gold fringe about the waist, but 
was allowed an extra inch or two on her tunic, and 
departed, much comforted by the assurance that her 
dress would not be “a shock to modesty,” as Lucy 
expressed it. 

“ Now, look at yourself, and, for my sake, prove an 
honor to your country and a terror to the foe,” said 
Lucy, as she led her protégée before the green-room 
mirror on the first night of “The Demon’s Daughter, 
or The Castle of the Sun!! The most Magnificent 
Spectacle ever produced upon the American Stage!!!” 
/~ Christie looked, and saw a warlike figure with glitter- 
ing helmet, shield and lance, streaming hair and savage 
cloak. She liked the picture, for there was much of 
he heroic spirit in the girl, and even this poor coun- 
terfeit pleased her eye and filled her fancy with 
martial memories of Joan of Arce, Zenobia, and Brito- 

arte. 

“Go to!” cried Lucy, who affected theatrical modes 
of speech. “ Don’t admire yourself any longer, but tie 
up your sandals and come on. Be sure you rush down 
the instant I cry, ‘Demon, I defy thee!’ Don’t break 


42 WORK. 


your neck, or pick your way like a cat in wet weather, 
but come with effect, for I want that scene to make a 
hit.” 


\\ RY 


TZ 


CHRISTIE AS QUEEN OF THE AMAZONS, 


Princess Caremfil swept away, and the Amazonian 
queen climbed to her perch among the painted moun- 
tains, where her troop already sat like a flock of pigeons 
shining in the sun. The gilded breast-plate rose and 
fell with the quick beating of her heart, the spear shook 
with the trembling of her hand, her lips were dry, her 
head dizzy, and more than once, as she waited for her 
cue, she was sorely tempted to run away and take the 
consequences. 

But the thought of Lucy’s good-will and confidence 
kept her, and when the cry came she answered with a 


ACTRESS. 43 


ringing shout, rushed down the ten-foot precipice, and 
charged upon the foe with an energy that inspired her 
followers, and quite satisfied the princess struggling in 
the demon’s grasp. 

With clashing of arms and shrill war-cries the rescu- 
ers of innocence assailed the sooty fiends who fell before 
their unscientific blows with a rapidity which inspired 
in the minds of beholders a suspicion that the goblins’ 
own voluminous tails tripped them up and gallantry 
kept them prostrate. As the last groan expired, the 
last agonized squirm subsided, the conquerors per- 
formed the intricate dance with which it appears the 
Amazons were wont to celebrate their victories. Then 
the scene closed with a glare of red light and a “ grand 
tableau” of the martial queen standing in a bower of 
lances, the rescued princess gracefully fainting in her 
arms, and the vanquished demon scowling fiercely 
under her foot, while four-and-twenty dishevelled dam- 
sels sang a song of exultation, to the barbaric music of 
a tattoo on their shields. 

All went well that night, and when at last the girls 
doffed crown and helmet, they confided to one another 
the firm opinion that the success of the piece was in a 
great measure owing to their talent, their exertions, 
and went gaily home predicting for themselves careers 
as brilliant as those of Siddons and Rachel. 

It would be a pleasant task to paint the vicissitudes 
and victories of a successful actress; but Christie was 
no dramatic genius born to shine before the world and 
leave a name behind her. She had no talent except 
that which may be developed in any girl possessing 
the lively fancy, sympathetic nature, and ambitious 


44 WORK. 


Zine 


spirit which make such girls naturally dramatic.| This 
was to be only one of many experiences which were to 
show her her own weakness and strength, and through 
effort, pain, and disappointment fit her to play a nobler 
part on a wider wou) 

For a few weeks Christie’s illusions lasted; then she 
discovered that the new life was nearly as humdrum as 
the old, that her companions were ordinary men and 
women, and her bright hopes were growing as dim as 
her tarnished shield. She grew unutterably weary of 
“The Castle of the Sun,” and found the “ Demon’s 
Daughter” an unmitigated bore. She was not tired of 
the profession, only dissatisfied with the place she held 
in it, and eager to attempt a part that gave some scope 
for power and passion. 

Mrs. Black wisely reminded her that she must learn 
to use her wings before she tried to fly, and comforted 
her with stories of celebrities who had begun as she 
was beginning, yet who had suddenly burst from their 
erub-like obscurity to adorn the world as splendid 
butterflies. 

“ We'll stand by you, Kit; so keep up your courage, 
and do your best. Be clever to every one in general, 
old Sharp in particular, and when a chance comes, have 
your wits about you and grab it. That’s the way to 
get on,” said Lucy, as sagely as if she had been a star 
for years. 

“If I had beauty I should stand a better chance,” 
sighed Christie, surveying herself with great disfavor, 
quite unconscious that to a cultivated eye the soul of 
beauty was often visible in that face of hers, with its 
intelligent eyes, sensitive mouth, and fine lines about 


ACTRESS. 45 


the forehead, making it a far more significant and 
attractive countenance than that of her friend, pos- 
sessing only piquant prettiness. 

“ Never mind, child; you’ve got a lovely figure, and 
an actress’s best feature, — fine eyes and eyebrows. I 
heard old Kent say so, and he’s a judge. So make the 
best of what you’ve got, as I do,” answered Lucy, 
glancing at her own comely little person with an air of 
perfect resignation. 

Christie laughed at the adviser, but wisely took the 
advice, and, though she fretted in private, was cheerful 
and alert in public. Always modest, attentive, and 
obliging, she soon became a favorite with her mates, 
and, thanks to Lucy’s good offices with Mr. Sharp, 
whose favorite she was, Christie got promoted sooner 
than she otherwise would have been. 

A great Christmas spectacle was brought out the 
next season, and Christie had a good part in it. When 
that was over she thought there was no hope for her, 
as the regular company was full and a different sort of 
performance was to begin. But just then her chance 
came, and she “ grabbed it.” The first soubrette died 
suddenly, and in the emergency Mr. Sharp offered the 
place to Christie till he could fill it to his mind. Lucy 
was second soubrette, and had hoped for this promo- 
tion; but Lucy did not sing well. Christie had a good 
voice, had taken lessons and much improved of late, 
so she had the preference and resolved to stand the test 
so well that this temporary elevation should become 
permanent. 

She did her best, and though many of the parts were 
distasteful to her she got through them successfully, 


ee WORK. 


while now and then she had one which she thoroughly 
enjoyed. Her Tilly Slowboy was a hit, and a proud 
girl was Christie when Kent, the comedian, congratu- 
lated her on it, and told her he had seldom seen it 
better done. 

To find favor in Kent’s eyes was an honor indeed, for 
he belonged to the old school, and rarely condescended 
to praise modern actors. His own style was so admi- 
rable that he was justly considered the first comedian 
in the country, and was the pride and mainstay of the 
old theatre where he had played for years. Of course 
he possessed much influence in that little world, and 
being a kindly man used it generously to help up any 
young aspirant who seemed to him deserving. 

He had observed Christie, attracted by her intelli- 
gent face and modest manners, for in spite of her youth 
there was a native refinement about her that made it 
impossible for her to romp and flirt as some of her 
mates did. But till she played Tilly he had not thought 
she possessed any talent. That pleased him, and seeing 
how mnch she valued his praise, and was flattered by 
his notice, he gave her the wise but unpalatable advice 
always offered young actors. Finding that she accepted 
it, was willing to study hard, work faithfully, and wait 
patiently, he predicted that in time she would make a 
clever actress, never a great one. 

Of course Christie thought he was mistaken, and 
secretly resolved to prove him a false prophet by the 
triumphs of her eareer. But she meekly bowed to his 
opinion; this docility pleased him, and he took a pater- 
nal sort of interest in her, which, coming from the pow- 
erful favorite, did her good service with the higher 


AOTRESS. : 4T 


powers, and helped her on more rapidly than years of 
meritorious effort. 

Toward the end of that second season several of 
Dickens’s dramatized novels were played, and Christie 
earned fresh laurels. She loved those books, and 
seemed by instinct to understand and personate the 
humor and pathos of many of those grotesque creations. 
Believing she had little beauty to sacrifice, she dressed 
such parts to the life, and played them with a spirit 
and ease that surprised those who had considered her 
a dignified and rather dull young person. 

“Tl tell you what it is, Sharp, that girl is going to 
make a capital character actress. When her parts suit, 
she forgets herself entirely and does admirably well. 
Her Miges was nearly the death of me to-night. She’s 
got that one gift, and it’s a good one. You’d better 
give her a chance, for I think she ’ll be a credit to the 
old concern.” 

Kent said that, — Christie heard it, and flew to Lucy, 
waving Miggs’s cap for joy as she told the news. 

“ What did Mr. Sharp say?” asked Lucy, turning 
round with her face half “made up.” 

“ He merely said ‘Hum, and smiled. Wasn’t that a 
good sign?” said Christie, anxiously. 

“ Can’t say,” and Lucy touched up her eyebrows as 
if she took no interest in the affair. 

Christie’s face fell, and her heart sunk at the thought 
of failure; but she kept up her spirits by working 
harder than ever, and soon had her reward. Mr. 
Sharp’s “ Hum” did mean yes, and the next season she 
was regularly engaged, with a salary of thirty dollars 
a week. 


STO YA DC WI 


—- 


48 WORK. 


It was a grand step, and knowing that she owed it to 
Kent, Christie did her utmost to show that she deserved 
his good opinion. New trials and temptations beset 
her now, but hard work and an innocent nature kept 
her safe and busy. Obstacles only spurred her on to 
redoubled exertion, and whether she did well or ill, was 
praised or blamed, she found a never-failing excitement 
in her attempts to reach the standard of perfection she 
had set up for herself. Kent did not regret his patron- 
age. Mr. Sharp was satisfied with the success of the 
experiment, and Christie soon became a favorite in a 
small way, because behind the actress the public always 
saw a woman who never “forgot the modesty of 
nature.” 

But as she grew prosperous in outward things, Chris- 
tie found herself burdened with a private cross that 
tried her very much. Lucy was no longer her friend; 
something had come between them, and a steadily 
increasing coldness took the place of the confidence 
and affection which had once existed. Lucy was jeal- 
ous for Christie had passed her in the race. She knew 
she could not fill the place Christie had gained by 
favor, and now held by her own exertions, still she was 
bitterly envious, though ashamed to own it. 

Christie tried to be just and gentle, to prove her 
gratitude to her first friend, and to show that her heart 
was unchanged. But she failed to win Lucy back and 
felt herself injured by such unjust resentment. Mrs. 
Black took her daughter’s part, and though they pre- 
served the peace outwardly the old friendliness was 
quite gone. 

Hoping to forget this trouble in excitement-Christie 


ACTRESS. 49 


gave herself entirely to her profession, finding in it a 
satisfaction which for a time consoled her. 

But gradually she underwent the sorrowful change 
which comes to strong natures when they wrong them- 
selves through ignorance or wilfulness. 

Pride and native integrity kept her from the worst 
temptations of such a life, but to the lesser ones she 
yielded, growing selfish, frivolous, and vain, — intent on 
her own advancement, and careless by what means she 
reached it. She had no thought now beyond her art, 
no desire beyond the commendation of those whose 
opinion was serviceable, no care for any one but her- 
self. 

Her love of admiration grew by what it fed on, till 
the sound of applause became the sweetest music to 
her ear. She rose with this hope, lay down with this 
satisfaction, and month after month passed in this fever- 
ish life, with no wish to change it, but a growing appe- 
tite for its unsatisfactory delights, an ever-increasing 
forgetfulness of any higher aspiration than dramatic 
fame. 

“Give me joy, Lucy, I’m to have a benefit next 
week! Everybody else has had one, and I’ve played 
for them all, so no one seemed to begrudge me my turn 
when dear old Kent proposed it,” said Christie, coming 
in one night still flushed and excited with the good 
news. 

“ What shall you have?” asked Lucy, trying to look 
pleased, and failing decidedly. 

“<« Masks and Faces.’ I’ve always wanted to play Peg. 
and it has good parts for you and Kent, and St. George. 

3 D 


50 WORK. 


I chose it for that reason, for I shall need all the help 
I can get to pull me through, I dare say.” | 

The smile vanished entirely at this speech, and Chris- 
tie was suddenly seized with a suspicion that Lucy was 
not only jealous of her as an actress, but as a woman. 
St. George was a comely young actor who usually 
played lovers’ parts with Christie, and played them 
very well, too, being possessed of much talent, and a 
gentleman. They had never thought of falling in love 
with each other, though St. George wooed and won 
Christie night after night in vaudeville and farce. But 
it was very easy to imagine that so much mock passion 
had a basis of truth, and Lucy evidently tormented 
herself with this belief: 

“ Why didn’t you choose Juliet: St. George would 
do Romeo so well?” said Lucy, with a sneer. 

“No, that is beyond me. Kent says Shakespeare 
will never be my line, and I believe him. I should 
think you’d be satisfied with ‘Masks and Faces,’ for you 
know Mabel gets her husband safely back in the end,” 
answered Christie, watching the effect of her words. 

“As if I wanted the man! No, thank you, other 
people’s leavings won’t suit me,” cried Lucy, tossing 
her head, though her face belied her words. 

“ Not even though he has ‘ heavenly eyes,’ ‘ distract- 
ing legs,’ and ‘a melting voice?’” asked Christie mali- 
ciously, quoting Lucy’s own rapturous speeches when 
the new actor came. 

“ Come, come, girls, don’t quarrel. I won’t ’ave it in 
me room. Lucy’s tired to death, and it’s not nice of 
you, Kitty, to come and crow over her this way,” said 


ACTRESS. ST 


Mamma Black, coming to the rescue, for Lucy was in 
tears, and Christie looking dangerous. 

“Tt’s impossible to please you, so Ill say good-night,” 
and Christie went to her room with resentment burn- 
ing hotly in her heart. 

As she crossed the chamber her eye fell on her own 
figure reflected in the long glass, and with a sudden 
impulse she turned up the gas, wiped the rouge from 
her cheeks, pushed back her hair, and_studied her own 
face intently for several moments. ate pale and 
jaded now, and all its freshness seemed gone; hard 
lines had come about the mouth, a feverish disquiet 
filled the eyes, and on the forehead seemed to lie the 
shadow of a discontent that saddened the whole face, 
If one could believe the testimony of that countenance 
things were not going well with Christie, and she 
owned it with a regretful sigh, as she asked herself, 

“Am I what [hoped I should be? No, and it is my 
fault. If three years of this life have made me this, 
what shall I be in ten? A fine actress perhaps, but 
how good a woman?” 

~~ With gloomy eyes fixed on her altered face she stood 
a moment struggling with herself. Then the hard look 
returned, and she spoke out defiantly, as if in answer 
to some warning voice within herself. “No one cares 
what I am, so why care myself? Why not go on and 
get as much fame as I can? Success gives me power 
if it cannot not give me happiness, and I must have some 
reward for my hard work. Yes! a gay life and a short 
one, then out with the lights and down with the 
curtain ! ” 

But in spite of her reckless words Christie sobbed 


52 WORK. 


herself to sleep that night like a child who knows it is 
astray, yet cannot see the right path or hear its mother’s 
voice calling it home. 

On the night of the benefit, Lucy was in a most exas- 
perating mood, Christie in a very indignant one, and 
as they entered their dressing-room they looked as if 
they might have played the Rival Queens with great 
effect. Lucy offered no help and Christie asked none, 
but putting her vexation resolutely out of sight fixed 
her mind on the task before her. 

As the pleasant stir began all about her, actress-like, 
she felt her spirits rise, her courage increase with every 
curl she fastened up, every gay garment she put on, 
and soon smiled approvingly at herself, for excitement 
lent her cheeks a better color than rouge, her eyes 
shone with satisfaction, and her heart beat high with 
the resolve to make a hit or die. 

Christie needed encouragement that night, and found 
it in the hearty welcome that greeted her, and the full 
house, which proved how kind a regard was entertained 
for her by many who knew her only by a fictitious 
name. She felt this deeply, and it helped her much, 
for she was vexed with many trials those before the 
footlights knew nothing of. 

The other players were full of kindly interest in her 
success, but Lucy took a naughty satisfaction in har- 
assing her by all the small slights and unanswerable 
provocations which one actress has it in her power to 
inflict upon another. 

Christie was fretted almost beyond endurance, and 
retaliated by an ominous frown when her position 
allowed, threatening asides when 2 moment’s by-play 


ACTRESS. 53 


favored their delivery, and angry protests whenever 
she met Lucy off the stage. 

But in spite of all annoyances she had never played 
better in her life. She liked the part, and acted the 
warm-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued Peg with 
a spirit and grace that surprised even those who knew 
her best. Especially good was she in the scenes with 
Triplet, for Kent played the part admirably, and cheered 
her on with many an encouraging look and word. 
Anxious to do honor to her patron and friend she 
threw her whole heart into the work; in the scene 
where she comes like a good angel to the home of the 
poor play-wright, she brought tears to the eyes of her 
audience; and when at her command Triplet strikes 
up a jig to amuse the children she “covered the 
buckle” in gallant style, dancing with all the frolic- 
some abandon of the Irish orange-girl who for a 
moment forgot her grandeur and her grief. 

That scene was her best, for it is full of those touches 
of nature that need very little art to make them effec- 
tive; and when a great bouquet fell with a thump at 
Christie’s feet, as she paused to bow her thanks for an 
encore, she felt that she had reached the height of 
earthly bliss. 

In the studio scene Lucy seemed suddenly gifted 
with unsuspected skill; for when Mabel kneels to the 
picture, praying her rival to give her back her husband’s 
heart, Christie was amazed to see real tears roll down 
Lucy’s cheeks, and to hear real love and longing thrill 
her trembling words with sudden power and passion. 

“That is not acting. She does love St. George, and 
thinks I mean to keep him from her. Poor dear! I'll 


54 WORK. 


tell her all about it to-night, and set her heart at rest,” 
thought Christie; and when Peg left the frame, her 
face expressed the genuine pity that she felt, and her 
voice was beautifully tender as she promised to restore 
the stolen treasure. 

Lucy felt comforted without knowing why, and the 
piece went smoothly on to its last scene. Peg was 
just relinquishing the repentant husband to his forgiv- 
ing wife with those brave words of hers, when a rend- 
ing sound above their heads made all look up and start 
back; all but Lucy, who stood bewildered. Christie’s 
quick eye saw the impending danger, and with a sud- 
den spring she caught her friend from it. It was only 
a second’s work, but it cost her much; for in the act, 
down crashed one of the mechanical contrivances used 
in a late spectacle, and in its fall stretched Christie 
stunned and senseless on the stage. 

A swift uprising filled the house with tumult; a 
crowd of actors hurried forward, and the panic-stricken 
audience caught glimpses of poor Peg lying mute and 
pallid in Mabel’s arms, while Vane wrung his hands, 
and Triplet audibly demanded, “ Why the devil some- 
body didn’t go for a doctor?” 

Then a brilliant view of Mount Parnassus, with 
Apollo and the Nine Muses in full blast, shut the scene 
from sight, and soon Mr. Sharp appeared to ask their 
patience till the after-piece was ready, for Miss Douglas 
was too much injured to appear again. And with an 
unwonted expression of feeling, the little man alluded 
to “the generous act which perhaps had changed the 
comedy to a tragedy and robbed the beneficiary of her 
well-earned reward at their hands.” 


ACTRESS. do 


All had seen the impulsive spring toward, not from, 
the danger, and this unpremeditated action won heart- 
ier applause than Christie ever had received for her 
best rendering of more heroic deeds. 

But she did not hear the cordial round they gave 
her. She had said she would “make a hit or die;” 
and just then it seemed as if she had done both, for 
she was deaf and blind to the admiration and the 
sympathy bestowed upon her as the curtain fell on the 
first, last benefit she ever was to have. 


CHAPTER IV. 


GOVERNESS. 


Mr. PHILIP FLETCHER. 


URING the next few weeks Christie learned the 
worth of many things which she had valued very 
lightly until then. Health became a boon too precious 
to be trifled with; life assumed a deeper significance 
when death’s shadow fell upon its light, and she dis- 
covered that dependence might be made endurable by 
the sympathy of unsuspected friends. 
Lucy waited upon her with a remorseful devotion 


GOVERNESS. 


which touched her very much and won entire forgive- 
ness for the past, long before it was repentantly im- 
plored. All her comrades came with offers of help and 
affectionate regrets. Several whom she had most dis- 
liked now earned her gratitude by the kindly thought- 
fulness which filled her sick-room with fruit and flowers, 
supplied carriages for the convalescent, and paid her 
doctor’s bill without her knowledge. 

Thus Christie learned, like many another needy 
member of the gay profession, that though often extray- 
agant and jovial in their way of life, these men and 
women give as freely as they spend, wear warm, true 
hearts under their motley, and make misfortune only 
another link in the bond of good-fellowship which 
binds them loyally together. 

Slowly Christie gathered her energies after weeks of 
suffering, and took up her life again, grateful for the 
gift, and anxious to be more worthy of it. Looking 
back upon the past she felt that she had made a mis- 
take and lost more than she had gained in those three 
years. Others might lead that life of alternate excite- 
ment and hard work unharmed, but she could not. 
The very ardor and insight which gave power to the 
actress made that mimic life unsatisfactory to the 
woman, for hers was an earnest nature that took fast 
hold of whatever task she gave herself to do, and lived 
in it heartily while duty made it right, or novelty lent 
it charms. But when she saw the error of a step, the 
emptiness of a belief, with a like earnestness she tried to 
retrieve the one and to replace the other with a better 
substitute. 

In the silence of wakeful nights and the solitude of 

3* 


WORK. 


quiet days, she took counsel with her better self, con- 
demned the reckless spirit which had possessed her, 
and came at last to the decision which conscience 
prompted and much thought confirmed. 

“The stage is not the place for me,” she said. “I 
have no genius to glorify the drudgery, keep me from 
temptation, and repay me for any sacrifice I make. 
Other women can lead this life safely and happily: I 
cannot, and I must not go back to it, because, with all 
my past experience, and in spite of all my present good 
resolutions, I should do no better, and I might do worse. 
I’m not wise enough to keep steady there; I must 
return to the old ways, dull but safe, and plod along 
till I find my real place and work.” 

Great was the surprise of Lucy and her mother when 
Christie told her resolution, adding, in a whisper, to the 
girl, “I leave the field clear for you, dear, and will 
dance at your wedding with all my heart when St. 
George asks you to play the ‘Honeymoon’ with him, 
as I’m sure he will before long.” 

Many entreaties from -friends, as well as secret long- 
ings, tried and tempted Christie sorely, but she with- 
stood them all, carried her point, and renounced the 
profession she could not follow without self-injury and 
self-reproach. The season was nearly over when she 
was well enough to take her place again, but she 
refused to return, relinquished her salary, sold her ward- 
robe, and never crossed the threshold of the theatre 
after she had said good-bye. 

Then she asked, “ What next?” and was speedily 
answered. An advertisement for-a governess met her 
eye, which seemed to combine the two things she 


GOVERNESS. 59 


most needed just then, — employment and change of 
air. 

“Mind you don’t mention that you’ve been an actress 
or it will be all up with you, me dear,” said Mrs. Black, 
as Christie prepared to investigate the matter, for since 
her last effort in that line she had increased her knowl- 
edge of music, and learned French enough to venture 
teaching it to very young pupils. 

“1d rather tell in the beginning, for if you keep any 
thing back it’s sure to pop out when you least expect or 
want it. I don’t believe these people will care as long 
as I’m respectable and teach well,” returned Christie, 
wishing she looked stronger and _rosier. 

“ You'll be sorry if you do tell,” warned Mrs. Black, 
who knew the ways of the world. 

“I shall be sorry if I don’t,” laughed Christie, andy 
so she was, in the end. 

“TL. N. Saltonstall” was the name on the door, and 
L. N. Saltonstal’s servant was so leisurely about 
answering Christie’s meek solo on the bell, that she had 
time to pull out her bonnet-strings half-a-dozen times 
before a very black man in a very white jacket conde- 
scended to conduct her to his mistress. 

A. frail, tea-colored lady appeared, displaying such 
a small proportion of woman to such a large pro- 
portion of purple and fine linen, that she looked as if 
she was literally as well as figuratively “dressed to 
death.” 

hristie went to the point in a business-like manner 
that seemed to suit Mrs. Saltonstall, because it saved 
so much trouble, and she replied, with a languid affa- 
bility: 


60 WORK. 


“J wish some one to teach the children a little, for 
they are getting too old to be left entirely to nurse. I 
am anxious to get to the sea-shore as soon as possible, 
for they have been poorly all winter, and my own 
health has suffered. Do you feel inclined to try the 
place? And what compensation do you require ?” 

Christie had but a vague idea of what wages were 
usually paid to nursery governesses, and hesitatingly 
named a sum which seemed reasonable to her, but was 
so much less than any other applicant had asked, that 
Mrs. Saltonstall began to think she could not do better 
than secure this cheap young person, who looked firm 
enough to manage her rebellious son and heir, and 
well-bred enough to begin the education of a little fine 
lady. Her winter had been an extravagant one, and 
she could economize in the governess better perhaps 
than elsewhere ; so she decided to try Christie, and get 
out of town at once. 

“Your terms are quite satisfactory, Miss Devon, and 
if my brother approves, I think we will consider the 
matter settled. Perhaps you would like to see the 
children? They are little darlings, and you will soon 
be fond of them, I am sure.” 

A bell was rung, an order given, and presently 
appeared an eight-year old boy, so excessively Scotch 
in his costume that he looked like an animated checker- 
board; and a little girl, who presented the appearance 
of a miniature opera-dancer staggering under the 
weight of an immense sash. 

“Go and speak prettily to Miss Devon, my pets, for 
she is coming to play with you, and you must mind 
what she says,” commanded mamma. 


GOVERNESS. 61 


The pale, fretful-looking little pair went solemnly to 
Christie’s knee, and stood there staring at her with a 
dull composure that quite daunted her, it was so sadly 
unchildlike. 

“What is your name, dear?” she asked, laying her 
hand on the young lady’s head. 

“Villamena Temmatina Taltentall. You mustn’t 
touch my hair; it’s just turled,” was the somewhat 
embarrassing reply. 

“ Mine’s Louy ’Poleon Thaltensthall, like papa’s,” 
volunteered the other young person, and Christie pri- 
vately wondered if the possession of names nearly as 
long as themselves was not a burden to the poor 
dears. 

Feeling that she must say something, she asked, in 
her most persuasive tone: 

“Would you like to have me come and teach you 
some nice lessons out of your little books?” 

If she had proposed corporal punishment on the spot 
it could not have caused greater dismay. Wilhelmina 
cast herself upon the floor passionately, declaring that 
she “touldn’t tuddy,” and Saltonstall, Jr. retreated 
precipitately to the door, and from that refuge defied 
the whole race of governesses and “nasty lessons” 
jointly. 

“There, run away to Justine. They are sadly out 
of sorts, and quite pining for sea-air,” said mamma, 
with both hands at her ears, for the war-cries of her 
darlings were piercing as they departed, proclaiming 
their wrongs while swarming up stairs, with a skirmish 
on each landing. 

With a few more words Christie took leave, and 


62 WORK. 


scandalized the sable retainer by smiling all through 
the hall, and laughing audibly as the door closed. The 
contrast of the plaid boy and beruffled girl’s irritability 
with their mother’s languid affectation, and her own 
unfortunate efforts, was too much for her. In the 
middle of her merriment she paused: suddenly, saying 
to herself: 

“TI never told about my acting. I must go back 
and have it settled.” She retraced a few steps, then 
turned and went on again, thinking, “No; for once Ill 
be guided by other people’s advice, and let well 
alone.” | 

A note arrived soon after, bidding Miss Devon con- 
sider herself engaged, and desiring her to join the 
family at the boat on Monday next. 

At the appointed time Christie was on board, and 
looked about for her party. Mrs. Saltonstall appeared 
in the distance with her family about her, and Christie 
took a survey before reporting herself. Madame looked 
more like a fashion-plate than ever, in a mass of green 
flounces, and an impressive bonnet flushed with poppies 
and bristling with wheat-ears. Beside her sata gentle- 
man, rapt in a newspaper, of course, for to an American 
man life is a burden till the daily news have been ab- 
sorbed. Mrs. Saltonstall’s brother was the possessor: 
of a handsome eye without softness, thin lips without 
benevolence, but plenty of will; a face and figure 
which some thirty-five years of ease and pleasure had 
done their best to polish and spoil, and a costume 
without flaw, from his aristocratic boots to the summer 
hat on his head. 

The little boy more checkered and the little girl 


GOVERNESS. 63 


more operatic than before, sat on stools eating bondons, 
while a French maid and the African footman hovered 
in the background. 


Mrs. SALTONSTALL AND FAMILY. 


Feeling very much like a meek gray moth among 
a flock of butterflies, Christie modestly presented her- 
self. 

“Good morning,” said Madame with a nod, which, 


64 WORK. 


slight as it was, caused a great commotion among the 
poppies and the wheat; “I began to be anxious about 
you. Miss Devon, my brother, Mr. Fletcher.” 

The gentleman bowed, and as Christie sat down he 
got up, saying, as he sauntered away with a bored 
expression : 

“Will you have the paper, Charlotte? There’s 
nothing in it.” 

As Mrs. Saltonstall seemed going to sleep and she 
felt delicate about addressing the irritable infants 
in public, Christie amused herself by watching Mr. 
Fletcher as he*oamed listlessly about, and deciding, 
in her usual rash way, that she did not like him because 
he looked both lazy and cross, and ennwi was evidently 
his bosom friend. Soon, however, she forgot every 
thing but the shimmer of the sunshine on the sea, the 
fresh wind that brought color to her pale cheeks, and 
the happy thoughts that left a smile upon her lips. 
Then Mr. Fletcher put up his glass and stared at her, 
shook his head, and said, as he lit a cigar: 

“ Poor little wretch, what a time she will have of it 
between Charlotte and the brats!” 

But Christie needed no pity, and thought herself a 
fortunate young woman when fairly established in her 
corner of the luxurious apartments occupied by the 
family. Her duties seemed light compared to those 
she had left, her dreams were almost as bright as of 
old, and the new life looked pleasant to her, for she was 
one of those who could find little bits of happiness for 
herself and enjoy them heartily in spite of loneliness 
or neglect. 

One of her amusements was studying her companions, 


GOVERNESS. 65 


and for a time this occupied her, for Christie possessed 
penetration and a feminine fancy for finding out people, 

Mrs. Saltonstall’s mission appeared to be the illus- 
tration of each new fashion as it came, and she per- 
formed it with a devotion worthy of a better cause. 
If a color reigned supreme she flushed herself with 
scarlet or faded into primrose, made herself pretty in 
the bluest of blue gowns, or turned livid under a goose- 
berry colored bonnet. Her hat-brims went up or down, 
were preposterously wide or dwindled to an inch, as 
the mode demanded. Her skirts were rampant with 
sixteen frills, or picturesque with landseapes down each 
side, and a Greek border ora plain hem. Her waists 
were as pointed as those of Queen Bess or as short as 
Diana’s; and it was the opinion of those who knew 
her that if the autocrat who ruled her life decreed the 
wearing of black cats as well as of vegetables, bugs, 
and birds, the blackest, glossiest Puss procurable for 
money would have adorned her head in some way. 

Her time was spent in dressing, driving, dining and 
dancing; in skimming novels, and embroidering muslin ; 
going to church with a velvet prayer-book and anew 
bonnet; and writing to her husband when she wantéd 
money, for she had a husband somewhere abroad, 
who so happily combined business with pleasure that 
he never found time to come home. Her children were 
inconvenient blessings, but she loved them with the 
love of a shallow heart, and took such good care of 
their little bodies that there was none left for their little 
souls. A few days’ trial satisfied her as to Christie’s | 
capabilities, and, relieved of that anxiety, she gave her- 
self up to her social duties, leaving the ocean and the 

E 


66 WORK. 


governess to make the summer wholesome and agree- 
able to “ the darlings.” 

Mr. Fletcher, having tried all sorts of pleasure and 
found that, like his newspaper, there was “ nothing in 
it,” was now paying the penalty for that unsatisfactory 
knowledge. Ill health soured his temper and made his 
life a burden to him. Having few resources within 
himself to fallback upon, he was very dependent upon 
other people, and other people were so busy amusing 
themselves, they seemed to find little time or inclina- 
tion to amuse a man who had never troubled himself 
about them. He was rich, but while his money could 
hire a servant to supply each want, gratify each caprice, 
it could not buy a tender, faithful friend to serve for 
love, and ask no wages but his comfort. 

He knew this, and felt the vain regret that inevitably 
comes to those who waste life and learn the value of 
good gifts by theirloss. But he was not wise or brave 
enough to bear his punishment manfully, and lay the 
lesson honestly to heart. Fretful and imperious when 
in pain, listless and selfish when at ease, his one aim in 
life now was to kill time, and any thing that aided him 
in this was most gratefully welcomed. 

For a long while he took no more notice of Christie 
than if she had been a shadow, seldom speaking beyond 
the necessary salutations, and merely carrying his finger 
to his hat-brim when he passed her on the beach with 
the children. Her first dislike was softened by pity 
when she found he was an invalid, but she troubled 
_ herself very little about him, and made no romances 
with him, for all her dreams were of younger, nobler 
lovers. 


GOVERNESS. 67 


Busied with her own affairs, the days though monot- 
onous were not unhappy. She prospered in her work 
and the children soon believed in her as devoutly as 
young Turks in their Prophet. She devised amuse- 
ments for herself as well as for them; walked, bathed, 
drove, and romped with the little people till her own 
eyes shone like theirs, her cheek grew rosy, and her 
thin figure rounded with the promise of vigorous health 
again. 

Christie was at her best that summer, physically 
speaking, for sickness had refined her face, giving it 
that indescribable expression which pain often leaves 
upon a countenance as if in compensation for the bloom O 
it takes away. The frank eyes had a softer shadow i nine 
their depths, the firm lips smiled less often, but when it 
came the smile was the sweeter for the gravity that 
went before, and in her voice there was a new under- 
tone of that subtle music, called sympathy, which steals 
into the heart and nestles there. / 

She was unconscious of this gracious change, but 
others saw and felt it,tand to some{a face bright with © 
health, intelligence, and modesty was more attractive 
than mere beauty. Thanks to this and her quiet, cordial 
manners, she found friends here and there to add charms 
to that summer by the sea. 

The dashing young men took no more notice of her 
than if she had been a little gray peep on the sands; 
not so much, for they shot peeps now and then, but a 
governess was not worth bringing down. ‘The fashion- 
able belles and beauties were not even aware of her 
existence, being too entirely absorbed in their yearly 
husband-hunt to think of any one but themselves and 


% 


68 WORK. 


their prey. The dowagers had more interesting topics 
to discuss, and found nothing in Christie’s humble for- 
tunes worthy of a thought, for they liked their gossip 
strong and highly flavored, like their tea. 

But a ki d-hearted girl or two found her out, several 
lively old nfids, as full of the romance of the past as 
ancient novels, a bashful boy, three or four invalids, 
and all the children, for Christie had a motherly heart 
and could find charms in the plainest, crossest baby that 
ever squalled. 

Of her old friends she saw nothing, as her theatrical 
ones were off on their vacations, Hepsey had left her 
place for one in another city, and Aunt Betsey seldom 
wrote. 

But one day a letter came, telling her that the dear 
old lady would never write again, and Christie felt as 
if her nearest and dearest friend was lost. She had 
gone away to a quiet spot among the rocks to get over 
her first grief alone, but found it very hard to check 
her tears, as memory brought back the past, tenderly 
recalling every kind act, every loving word, and familiar 
scene. She seldom wept, but when any thing did unseal 
the fountains that lay so deep, she cried with all her 
heart, and felt the better for it. 

With the letter crumpled in her hand, her head on 
her knees, and her hat at her feet, she was sobbing like 
a child, when steps startled her, and, looking up, she 
saw Mr. Fletcher regarding her with an astonished 
countenance from under his big sun umbrella. 

Something in the flushed, wet face, with its tremu- 
lous lips and great tears rolling down, seemed to touch 


GOVERNESS. 69 


even lazy Mr. Fletcher, for he furled his umbrella with 
unusual rapidity, and came up, saying, anxiously : 

“My dear Miss Devon, what’s the matter? Are 
you hurt? Has Mrs. 8. been scolding? Or have the 
children been too much for you?” 

“No; oh, no! it’s bad news from home,” and Chris- 
tie’s head went down again, for a kind word was more 
than she could bear just then. 

“Some one ill, I fancy? I’m sorry to hear it, but 
you must hope for the best, you know,” replied Mr. 
Fletcher, really quite exerting himself to remember and 
present this well-worn consolation. 

“There is no hope; Aunt Betsey’s dead!” 

“Dear me! that’s very sad.” 

Mr. Fletcher tried not to smile as Christie sobbed 
out the old-fashioned name, but a minute afterward 
there were actually tears in his eyes, for, as if won by 
his sympathy, she poured out the homely little story of 
Aunt Betsey’s life and love, unconsciously pronouncing 
the kind old lady’s best epitaph in the unaffected grief 
that made her broken words so eloquent. 

For a minute Mr. Fletcher forgot himself, and felt as 
he remembered feeling long ago, when, a warm-hearted 
boy, he had comforted his little sister for a lost kitten 
or a broken’doll. It was a new sensation, therefore 
interesting and agreeable while it lasted, and when 
it vanished, which it speedily did, he sighed, then 
shrugged his shoulders and wished “the girl would 
stop crying like a water-spout.” 

“Tt’s hard, but we all have to bear it, you know ; 
and sometimes I fancy if half the pity we give the 
dead, who don’t need it, was given to the living, who 


70 WORK. 


do, they’d bear their troubles more comfortably. I 
know JZ should,” added Mr. Fletcher, returning to his 
own afflictions, and vaguely wondering if any one 
would cry like that when he departed this life. 

Christie minded little what he said, for his voice was 
pitiful and it comforted her. She dried her tears, put 
back her hair, and thanked him with a grateful smile, 
which gave him another pleasant sensation ; for, though 
young ladies showered smiles upon him with midsum- 
mer radiance, they seemed cool and pale beside the 
sweet sincerity of this one given by a girl whose eyes 
were red with tender tears. 

“That’s right, cheer up, take a little run on the 
beach, and forget all about it,” he said, with a hearti- 
ness that surprised himself as much as it did Christie. 

“T will, thank you. Please don’t speak of this; I’m 
used to bearing my troubles alone, and time will help 
me to do it cheerfully.” 

“That ’s brave! If I can do any thing, let me know; 


I shall be most happy.” And Mr. Fletcher evidently 


meant what he said. 

Christie gave him another grateful “Thank you,” 
then picked up her hat and went away along the sands 
to try his prescription; while Mr. Fletcher walked the 
other way, so rapt in thought that he forgot to put 


up his umbrella till the end of his aristocratic nose was 


burnt a deep red. 

That was the beginning of it; for when Mr. Fletcher 
found a new amusement, he usually pursued it regard- 
less of consequences. Christie took his pity for what. 
it was worth, and thought no more of that little inter- 
view, for her heart was very heavy. But he remem- 


Py 


GOVERNESS. i1 


bered it, and, when they met on the beach next day, 
wondered how the governess would behave. She was 
reading as she walked, and, with a mute acknowledg- 
ment of his nod, tranquilly turned a page and read on 
without a pause, a smile, or change of color. 

Mr. Fletcher laughed as he strolled away ; but Chris- 
tie was all the more amusing for her want of coquetry, 
and soon after he tried her again. The great hotel 
was all astir one evening with bustle, light, and music ; 
for the young people had a hop, as an appropriate 
entertainment for a melting July night. With no taste 
for such folly, even if health had not forbidden it, Mr. 
Fletcher lounged about the piazzas, tantalizing the fair 
fowlers who spread their nets for him, and goading 
sundry desperate spinsters to despair by his erratic 
movements. Coming to a quiet nook, where a long 
window gave a fine view of the brilliant scene, he 
found Christie leaning in, with a bright, wistful face, 
while her hand kept time to the enchanting music of a 
waltz. 

“ Wisely watching the lunatics, instead of joining in 
their antics,” he said, sitting down with a sigh. 

Christie looked around and answered, with the wist- 
ful look still in her eyes: 

“T’m very fond of that sort of insanity; but there 
is no place for me in Bedlam at present.” 

“J daresay I can find you one, if you care to try it. 
I don’t indulge myself” “And Mr. Fletcher’s eye went 
from the rose in Christie’s brown hair to the silvery 4 
folds of her best gown, put on merely for the pleasure 
of wearing it because every one else was in festival 


array. 
a 


12 WORK. 


She shook her head. “No, thank you. Governesses 
are very kindly treated in America; but ball-rooms 
like that are not for them. I enjoy looking on, fortu- 
nately; so I have my share of fun after all.” 

“TI shan’t get any complaints out of her. Plucky 
little soul! I rather like that,” said Mr. Fletcher to 
himself; and, finding his seat comfortable, the corner 


cool, and his companion pleasant to look at, with the . 


moonlight doing its best for her, he went on talking for 
his own satisfaction. 

Christie would rather have been left in peace; but 
fancying that he did it out of kindness to her, and that 
she had done him injustice before, she was grateful 
now, and exerted herself to seem so; in which endeavor 
she succeeded so well that Mr. Fletcher proved he 
could be a very agreeable companion when he chose. 
He talked well; and Christie was a good listener. Soon 
interest conquered her reserve, and she ventured to 
ask a question, make a criticism, or express an opinion 
in her own simple way. Unconsciously she piqued the 
curiosity of the man; for, though he knew many lovely, 
wise, and witty women, he had never chanced to meet 
with one like this before; and novelty was the desire 
of his life. Of course he did not find moonlight, music, 
and agreeable chat as delightful as she did; but there 
was something animating in the fresh face opposite, 
something flattering in the eager interest she showed, 
and something most attractive in the glimpses uncon- 
sciously given him of a nature genuine in its womanly 
sincerity and strength. Something about this girl 
seemed to appeal to the old self, so long neglected that 
he thought it dead. He could not analyze the feeling, 


———— St 


GOVERNESS. (ts: 


but was conscious of a desire to seem better than he 
was as he looked into those honest eyes; to talk well, 
that he might bring that frank smile to the lips that 
grew either sad or scornful when he tried worldly gos- 
sip or bitter satire; and to prove himself a man under 
all the elegance and polish of the gentleman. 

He was discovering then, what Christie learned 
when her turn came, that fine natures seldom fail to 
draw out the finer traits of those who approach them, 
as the little witch-hazel wand, even in the hand of a 
child, detects and points to hidden springs in unsus- 
pected spots. Women often possess this gift, and when, 
used worthily find it as powerful as beauty; for, if less 
alluring, it is more lasting and more helpful, since it 
appeals, not to the senses, but the souls of men/# 

Christie was one of these; and in proportion as her 
own nature was sound and sweet so was its power as a 
touchstone for the genuineness of others. It was this 
unconscious gift that made her wonder at the unex- 
pected kindness she found in Mr. Fletcher, and this 
which made him, for an hour or two at least, hesrt- 
ily wish he could live his life over again and do it 
better. 

After that evening Mr. Fletcher spoke to Christie 
when he met her, turned and joined her sometimes 
as she walked with the children, and fell into the way 
of lounging near when she sat reading aloud to an 
invalid friend on piazza or sea-shore. Christie much 
preferred to have no auditor but kind Miss Tudor; but 
finding the old lady enjoyed his chat she resigned her- 
self, and when he brought them new books as well a 


himself, she became quite cordial. 
4 


T4 WORK. 


Everybody sauntered and lounged, so no one minded 
the little group that met day after day among the rocks. 
Christie read aloud, while the children revelled in sand, 
shells, and puddles; Miss Tudor spun endless webs of 
gay silk and wool; and Mr. Fletcher, with his hat over 
his eyes, lay sunning himself like a luxurious lizard, as 
he watched the face that grew daily fairer in his sight, 
and listened to the pleasant voice that went reading on 
till all his ls and ennwi seemed lulled to sleep as by 
a spell. 

A week or two of this new caprice set Christie to — 
thinking. She knew that Uncle Philip was not fond 
of “the darlings;” it was evident that good Miss Tu- 
dor, with her mild twaddle and eternal knitting, was 
not the attraction, so she was forced to believe that he 

came for her sake alone. She laughed at herself for 
s) this fancy at first; but not possessing the sweet uncon- 
> sciousness of those heroines who can live through three 
Y volumes with a burning passion before their eyes, and 
“> | never see it till the proper moment comes, and_Eugene 
~~ goes down upon his knees, she soon felt sure that Mr. 
Fletcher found her society agreeable, and wished her to 
|know it. 

Being a mortal woman, her vanity was flattered, and 
she found herself showing that she liked it by those 
small signs and symbols which lovers’ eyes are so quick 
to see and understand, — an artful bow on her hat, a 
flower in her belt, fresh muslin gowns, and the most 
becoming arrangement of her hair. 

“Poor man, he has so few pleasures I’m sure I 
needn’t grudge him such a small one as looking at and 
listening to me if he likes it,” she said to herself one 


GOVERNESS. 16 


day, as she was preparing for her daily stroll with un- 
usual care. “ But how will it end? If he only wants a 
mild flirtation he is welcome to it; but if he really 
cares for me, I must make up my mind about it, and 
not deceive him. I don’t believe he loves me: how 
can he? such an insignificant creature as I am.” 

Here she looked in the glass, and as she looked the 
color deepened in her cheek, her eyes shone, and a 
smile would sit upon her lips, for the reflection showed 
her a very winning face under the coquettish hat put 
on to captivate. 

“Don’t be foolish, Christie! Mind what you do, and 
be sure vanity doesn’t delude you,yfor you are only a 
woman, and in things of this sort we are so blind and 
silly. I?ll think of this possibility soberly, but I won’t 


flirt, and then which ever way I decide I shall have 


nothing to reproach myself with.” 

Armed with this virtuous resolution, Christie sternly 
replaced the pretty hat with her old brown one, fas- 
tened up a becoming curl, which of late she had worn 
behind her ear, and put on a pair of stout, rusty boots, 
much fitter for rocks and sand than the smart slippers 
she was preparing to sacrifice. Then she trudged away 
to Miss Tudor, bent on being very quiet and reserved, 
as became a meek and lowly governess. 

But, dear heart, how feeble are the resolutions of 
womankind! When she found herself sitting in her 
favorite nook, with the wide, blue sea glittering below, 
the fresh wind making her blood dance in her veins, 
and all the earth and sky so full of summer life and 
loveliness, her heart would sing for joy, her face would 
shine with the mere bliss of living, and underneath 


A 


76 WORK. 


all this natural content the new thought, half con- 
fessed, yet very sweet, would whisper, “Somebody 
cares for me.” 

If she had doubted it, the expression of Mr. Fletch- 
er’s face that morning would have dispelled the doubt, 
for, as she read, he was saying to himself: “ Yes, this 
healthful, cheery, helpful creature is what I want to 
make life pleasant. Every thing else is used up; why 
not try this, and make the most of my last_chance? 
She does me good, and I don’t seem to get tired of her. 
I can’t have a long life, they tell me, nor an easy one, 
with the devil to pay with my vitals generally; so it 
would be a wise thing to provide myself with a good- 
tempered, faithful soul to take care of me. My fortune 
would pay for loss of time, and my death leave her 
a bonny widow. I won’t be rash, but I think I’ 
try rt.” 

With this mixture of tender, selfish, and regretful 
thoughts in his mind, it is no wonder Mr. Fletcher’s 
eyes betrayed him, as he lay looking at Christie. Never 
had she read so badly, for she could not keep her mind 
on her book. It eould wander to that new and trouble- 
some fancy of hers; she could not help thinking that 
Mr. Fletcher must have been a handsome man before 
he was so ill; wondering if his temper was very bad, 
and fancying that he might prove both generous and 
kind and true to one who loved and served him well. 
At this point she was suddenly checked by a slip of the 
tongue that covered her with confusion. 

She was reading “John Halifax,” and instead of say- 
ing “ Phineas Fletcher” she said Philip, and then colored 
to her forehead, and lost her place. Miss Tudor did 


GOVERNESS. ra 


not mind it, but Mr. Fletcher laughed, and Christie 
thanked Heaven that her face was half hidden by the 
old brown hat. 

Nothing was said, but she was much relieved to find 
that Mr. Fletcher had joined a yachting party next 
day and he would be away for a week. During that 
week Christie thought over the matter, and fancied she 
had made up her mind. She recalled certain speeches 
she had heard, and which had more weight with her than 
she suspected. One dowager had said to another: “ P. 
F. intends to marry, I assure you, for his sister told me 
so, with tears in her eyes. Men who have been gay in 
their youth make very good husbands when their wild 
oats are sowed. Clara could not do better, and I should 
be quite content to give her to him.” 

“ Well, dear, I should be sorry to see my Augusta 
his wife, for whoever he marries will be a perfect slave 
to him. His fortune would be a nice thing if he did 
not live long; but even for that my Augusta shall not be 
sacrificed,” returned the other matron whose Augusta 
had vainly tried to captivate “P. F.,” and revenged 
herself by calling him “a wreck, my dear, a perfect 
wreck.” 

At another time Christie heard some girls discussing 
the eligibility of several gentlemen, and Mr. Fletcher 
was considered the best match among them. 

“You can do any thing you like with a husband a 
good deal older than yourself. He’s happy with his 
business, his club, and his dinner, and leaves you to do 
what you please ; just keep him comfortable and he'll 
pay your bills without much fuss,” said one young thing 
who had seen life at twenty. 


\ 


78 WORK. 


“Td take him if I had the chance, just because 
everybody wants him. Don’t admire him a particle, 
but it will make a jolly stir whenever he does marry, 
and I wouldn’t mind having a hand in it,” said the 
second budding belle. 

“T’d take him for the diamonds alone. Mamma 
says they are splendid, and have been in the family for 
ages. He won’t let Mrs. 8. wear them, for they always 
go to the eldest son’s wife. Hope he’ll choose a hand- 
some woman who will show them off well,” said a third 
sweet girl, glancing at her own fine neck. 

“He won't; he’ll take some poky old maid who will 
cuddle him when he is sick, and keep out of his way 
when he is well. See if he don’t.” 

“T saw him dawdling round with old Tudor, perhaps 
he means to take her: she’s a capital nurse, got ill her- 
self taking care of her father, you know.” 

“Perhaps he’s after the governess ; she’s rather nice 
looking, though she hasn’t a bit of style.” 

“ Gracious, no! she’s a dowdy thing, always trailing 
round with a book and those horrid children. No 
danger of his marrying her.” And a derisive laugh 
seemed to settle that question beyond a doubt. 

“ Oh, indeed!” said Christie, as the girls went troop- 
ing out of the bath-house, where this pleasing chatter 
had been carried on regardless of listeners. She called 
them “mercenary, worldly, unwomanly flirts,” and felt 
herself much their superior. Yet the memory of their 
gossip haunted her, and had its influence upon her 


<> decision, tho he thought{she came to it through 
her own good judgment and discretion. 


“Tf he really cares for me I will listen, and not refuse 


GOVERNESS. 79 


till I know him well enough to decide. I’m tired of 
being alone, and should enjoy ease and pleasure so 
much. He’s going abroad for the winter, and that 
would be charming. /I’ll try not to be worldly-minded 
and marry without love, but it does look tempting to 
a poor soul like me.” / 

So Christie made up her mind to accept, if this pro- 
motion was offered her; and while she waited, went 
through so many alternations of feeling, and was so 
harassed by doubts and fears that she sometimes found 
herself wishing it had never occurred to her. 

Mr. Fletcher, meantime, with the help of many medi- 
tative cigars, was making up Ais mind. Absence only 
proved to him how much he needed a _better time-killer 
than billiards, horses, or newspapers, for the long, list- 
less days seemed endless without the cheerful govern- 
ess to tone him up, like a new and agreeable sort of 
bitters. A gradually increasing desire to secure this 
satisfaction had taken possession of him, and the 
thought of always having a pleasant companion, with 
no nerves, nonsense, or affectation about her, was an 
inviting idea to a man tired of fashionable follies and 
tormented with the ennui of his own society. 

The gossip, wonder, and chagrin such a step would 
cause rather pleased his fancy; the excitement of try- 
ing almost the only thing as yet untried allured him ; 
and deeper than all the desire to forget the past in a 
better fature led him to Christie by the nobler instincts 
that never wholly die in any soul. He wanted her as 
he had wanted many other things in his life, and had 
little doubt that he could have her for the asking. 
Even if love was not abounding, surely his fortune, 


80 WORK. 


which hitherto had procured him all he wished (except 
health and happiness) could buy him a wife, when his 
friends made better bargains every day. So, having 
settled the question, he came home again, and every 
one said the trip had done him a world of good. 

Christie sat in her favorite nook one bright Septem- 
ber morning, with the inevitable children hunting hap- 
less crabs in a pool near by. A book lay on her knee, 
but she was not reading; her eyes were looking far 
across the blue waste before her with an eager gaze, 
and her face was bright with some happy thought. 
The sound of approaching steps disturbed her reverie, 
and, recognizing them, she plunged into the heart of 
the story, reading as if utterly absorbed, till a shadow 
fell athwart the page, and the voice she had expected 
to hear asked blandly : 

See What book now, Miss Devon?” 

“<¢ Jane Eyre,’ sir.” 

Mr. Fletcher sat down just where her hat-brim was 
no screen, pulled off his gloves, and leisurely composed 
himself for a comfortable lounge. 

“ What is your opinion of Rochester?” he asked, 
presently. 

“ Not a very high one.” 

“Then you think Jane was a fool to love and try to 
make a saint of him, I suppose ?” 

“JT like Jane, but never can forgive her marrying that 
man, as ] haven’t much faith in the saints such sinners 
make.” | 

“ But don’t you think a man who had only follies to 
regret might expect a good woman to lend him a hand 
and make him happy ?” 


GOVERNESS. 81 


“Tf he has wasted his life he must take the conse- 
quences, and be content with pity and indifference, 
instead of respect and love. Many good women do 
‘lend a hand,’ as you say, and it is quite Christian and 
amiable, I’ve no doubt; but I cannot think it a fair 
bargain.” ah ak 
“Mr. Fletcher liked to make Christie talk, for in the 
interest of the subject she forgot herself; and her chief 
charm for him was her earnestness. But just then the 
earnestness did not seem to suit him, and he said, rather 
sharply : 

“ What hard-hearted creatures you women are some- 
times! Now, I fancied you were one of those who 
wouldn’t leave a poor fellow to his fate, if his salvation 
lay in your hands.” 

“T can’t say what I should do in such a case; but it, 
always seemed to me that a man should have energy 
enough to save himself, and not expect the ‘weaker 
vessel, as he calls her, to do it for him,” answered. 
Christie, with a conscious look, for Mr. Fletcher’s face 
made her feel as if something was going to happen. 

Evidently anxious to know what she would do in 
aforesaid case, Mr. Fletcher decided to put one before 
her as speedily as possible, so he said, in a pensive tone, 
and with a wistful glance: 

“You looked very happy just now when I came up. 
I wish I could believe that my return had any thing to 
do with it.” 

Christie wished she could control her tell-tale color, 
but finding she could not, looked hard at the sea, and, 
ignoring his tender insinuation, said, with suspicious 
enthusiasm : 

4* F 


82 WORK. 


“T was thinking of what Mrs. Saltonstall said this 
morning. She asked me if I would like to go to Paris 
with her for the winter. It has always been one of my 
dreams to go abroad, and I do hope I shall not be dis- 
appointed.” 

Christie’s blush seemed to be a truer answer than her 
words, and, leaning a little nearer, Mr. Fletcher said, 
in his most persuasive tone: 

“Will you go to Paris as my governess, instead of 
Charlotte’s?” | 

Christie thought her reply was all ready ; but when 
the moment came, she found it was not, and sat silent, 
feeling as if that “Yes” would promise far more than 
she could give. Mr. Fletcher had no doubt what the 
answer would be, and was in no haste to get it, for that 
was one of the moments that are so pleasant and so 
short-lived they should be enjoyed to the uttermost. 
He liked to watch her color come and go, to see the 
asters on her bosom tremble with the quickened beat- 
ing of her heart, and tasted, in anticipation, the satis- 
faction of the moment when that pleasant voice of 
hers would falter out its grateful assent. Drawing yet 
nearer, he went on, still in the persuasive tone that 
would have been more lover-like if it had been less 
assured. 

“JT think I am not mistaken in believing that you 
care for me a little. You must know how fond I am 
of you, how much I need you, and how glad I should 
be to give all I have if I might keep you always to 
make my hard life happy. May I, Christie?” 

“ You would soon tire of me. I have no beauty, no 
accomplishments, no fortune,— nothing but my heart 


GOVERNESS. 83 


and my hand to give theman I marry. Is that enough?” 
asked Christie, looking at him with eyes that betrayed 
the hunger of _an empty heart longing to be fed with 
genuine food. ais 

But Mr. Fletcher did not understand its meaning ; 
he saw the humility in her face, thought she was over- 
come by the weight of the honor he did her, and tried 
to reassure her with the gracious air of one who wishes 
to lighten the favor he confers. 

“It might not be for some men, but it is for me, 
because I want you very much. Let people say what 
they will, if you say yes I am satisfied. You shall not 
regret it, Christie; Ill do my best to make you happy; 
you shall travel wherever I can go with you, have what 
you like, if possible, and when we come back by and 
by, you shall take your place in the world as my wife. 
You will fill it well, I fancy, and I shall be a happy 
man. I’ve had my own way all my life, and I mean to 
have it now, so smile, and say, ‘Yes, Philip, like a 
sweet soul, as you are.” 

But Christie did not smile, and felt no inclination to 
say “ Yes, Philip,” for that last speech of his jarred on 
her ear. The tone of unconscious condescension in it 
wounded the woman’s sensitive pride; self was too 
‘apparent, and the most generous words seemed to her 
like bribes. This was not the lover she had dreamed 
of, the brave, true man who gave her all, and felt it 
could not half repay the treasure of her innocent, first 
love. This was not the happiness she had hoped for, 
the perfect faith, the glad surrender, the sweet content 
that made all things possible, and changed this work-a- 
day world into a heaven while the joy lasted. 


84 WORK. 


She had decided to say “ yes,” but her heart said 
“no” decidedly, and with instinctive loyalty she obeyed 
it, even while she seemed to yield to the temptation 
which appeals to three of the strongest foibles in most 
women’s nature, — vanity, ambition, and the love of 
pleasure. 

“You are very kind, but you may repent it, you 
know so little of me,” she began, trying to soften her’ 
refusal, but sadly hindered by a feeling of contempt. 

“J know more about you than you think; but it 
makes no difference,” interrupted Mr. Fletcher, with a 
smile that irritated Christie, even before she understood 
its significance. “I thought it would at first, but I 
found I couldn’t get on without you, so I made up my 
mind to forgive and forget that my wife had ever been 
an actress.” 

Christie had forgotten it, and it would have been 
well for him if he had held his tongue. Now she 
understood the tone that had chilled her, the smile that 
angered her, and Mr. Fletcher’s fate was settled in the 
drawing of a breath. 

“ Who told you that?” she asked, quickly, while 
every nerve tingled with the mortification of being 
found out then and there in the one secret of her life. 

“T saw you dancing on the beach with the children 
one day, and it reminded me of an actress I had once 
seen. I should not have remembered it but for the 
accident which impressed it on my mind. Powder, 
paint, and costume made ‘Miss Douglas’ a very differ- 
ent woman from Miss Devon, but a few cautious inqui- 
ries settled the matter, and I then understood where 
you got that slight soupgon of dash and daring which 


GOVERNESS. | 85 


makes our demure governess so charming when with 


me.” 


As he spoke, Mr. Fletcher smiled again, and kissed 
his hand to her with a dramatic little gesture that exas- 
perated Christie beyond measure. She would not make 
light of it, as he did, and submit to be forgiven for a 
past she was not ashamed of. Heartily wishing she 
had been frank at first, she resolved to have it out now, 
and accept nothing Mr. Fletcher offered her, not even 
silence. 

“Yes,” she said, as steadily as she could, “I was an 
actress for three years, and though it was a hard life it 
was an honest one, and I’m not ashamed of it. I 
ought to have told Mrs. Saltonstall, but I was warned 
that if I did it would be difficult to find a place, people 
are so prejudiced. I sincerely regret it now, and 
shall tell her at once, so you may save yourself the 
trouble.” 

“ My dear girl, I never dreamed of telling any one!” 
cried Mr. Fletcher in an injured tone. “I beg you 
won't speak, but trust me, and let it be a little secret 
between us two. I assure you it makes no difference 
to me, for I should marry an opera dancer if I chose, 
so forget it, as I do, and set my mind at rest upon the 
other point. I’m still waiting for my answer, you 
know.” 

“It is ready.” 

“ A kind one, I’m sure. What is it, Christie?” 

“No, I thank you.” 

“But you are not in earnest ?” 

“ Perfectly so.” 

Mr. Fletcher got up suddenly and set his back against 


86 WORK. 


the rock, saying in a tone of such unaffected surprise 
and disappointment that her heart reproached her: 


NAA 


“No, I THANK you.” 


“Am I to understand that as your final answer, Miss 
Devon?” 

“Distinctly and decidedly my final answer, Mr. 
Fletcher.” 

Christie tried to speak kindly, but she was angry 
with herself and him, and unconsciously showed it both 
in face and voice, for she was no actress off the stage, 
and wanted to be very true just then as a late atone- 
ment for that earlier want of candor. 


GOVERNESS. 87 


A quick change passed over Mr. Fletcher’s face; his 
cold eyes kindled with an angry spark, his lips were 
pale with anger, and his voice was very bitter, as he 
slowly said: 

“T°’ve made many blunders in my life, and this is 
one of the greatest; for I believed in a woman, was 
fool enough to care for her with the sincerest love I 
ever knew, and fancied that she would be grateful for 
the sacrifice I made.” 

He got no further, for Christie rose straight up and 
answered him with all the indignation she felt burning 
in her face and stirring the voice she tried in vain to 
keep as steady as his own. 

“ The sacrifice would not have been al/ yours, for it 
is what we are, not what we have, that makes one 
human being superior to another. I am as well-born 
as you in spite of my poverty; my life, I think, has 
been a better one than yours; my heart, I know, is 
fresher, and my memory has fewer faults and follies to 
reproach me with. What can you give me but money 
and position in return for the youth and freedom I 
should sacrifice in marrying you? Not love, for you 
count the cost of your bargain, as no true lover could, 
and you reproach me for deceit when in your heart you 
know you onty cared for me because I can amuse and 
serve you. I too deceived myself, I too see my mis- 
take, and I decline the honor you would do me, since it 
is so great in your eyes that you must remind me of it 
as you offer it.” 

In the excitement of the moment Christie uncon- 
sciously spoke with something of her old dramatic fer- 
vor in voice and gesture; Mr. Fletcher saw it, and, 


88 WORK. 


while he never had admired her so much, could not 
resist avenging himself for the words that angered him, 
the more deeply for their truth. Wounded vanity and 
bafHed will can make an ungenerous man as spiteful as 
a woman; and Mr. Fletcher proved it then, for he saw 
where Christie’s pride was sorest, and touched the 
wound with the skill of a resentful nature. 

As she paused, he softly clapped his hands, saying, 
with a smile that made her eyes flash: 

“ Very well done! infinitely superior to your ‘ Wof- 
fington, Miss Devon. I am disappointed in the woman, 
but I make my compliment to the actress, and leave 
the stage free for another and a more successful Romeo.” 

Still smiling, he bowed and went away apparently 
quite calm and much amused, but a more wrathful, dis- 
appointed man never crossed those sands than the one 
who kicked his dog and swore at himself for a fool that 
day when no one saw him. 

For a minute Christie stood and watched him, then, 
feeling that she must either laugh or cry, wisely chose 
the former vent for her emotions, and sat down feeling 
inclined to look at the whole scene from a ludicrous 
point of view. 

“ My second love affair is a worse failure than my 
first, for I did pity poor Joe, but this man is detestable, 
and I never will forgive him that last insult. JI dare 
say I was absurdly tragical, I’m apt to be when very 
angry, but what a temper he has got! The white, cold 
kind, that smoulders and stabs, instead of blazing up 
and being over in a minute. Thank Heaven, I’m not 
his wife! Well, I’ve made an enemy and lost my 
place, for of course Mrs. Saltonstall won’t keep me 


GOVERNESS. 89 


after this awful discovery. Ill tell her at once, for I 
will have no ‘little secrets’ with him. No Paris either, 

and that’s the worst of it all! Never mind, I haven’t 
sold my liberty for the Fletcher diamonds, and that’s 
a comfort. Now a short scene with my lady and then 
exit governess.” 

But though she laughed, Christie felt troubled at the 
part she had played in this affair; repented of her 
worldly aspirations; confessed her vanity; accepted 
her mortification and disappointment as a just punish- 
ment for her sins; and yet at the bottom of her heart 
she did enjoy it mightily. 

She tried to spare Mr. Fletcher in her interview with 
his sister, and only betrayed her own iniquities. But, 
to her surprise, Mrs. Saltonstall, though much disturbed 
at the discovery, valued Christie as a governess, and 
respected her as a woman, so she was willing to bury 
the past, she said, and still hoped Miss Devon would 
remain, 

Then Christie was forced to tell her why it was im- 
possible for her to do so; and, in her secret soul, she 
took a naughty satisfaction in demurely mentioning 
that she had refused my lord. 

Mrs. Saltonstall’s consternation was comical, for she 
had been so absorbed in her own affairs she had sus- 
pected nothing; and horror fell upon her when she 
learned how near dear Philip haa been to the fate from 
which she jealously guarded him, that his property 
might one day benefit the darlings. 

In a moment every thing was changed; and it was 
evident to Christie that the sooner she left the better it 
would suit madame. The proprieties were preserved 


90 WORK. 


to the end, and Mrs. Saltonstall treated her with un- 
usual respect, for she had come to honor, and also con- 
ducted herself in a most praiseworthy manner. Tow 
she could refuse a Fletcher visibly amazed the lady; 
but she forgave the slight, and gently insinuated that 
“my brother” was, perhaps, only amusing himself. 

Christie was but too glad to be off; and when Mrs. 
Saltonstall asked when she would prefer to leave, 
promptly replied, “To-morrow,” received her salary, 
which was forthcoming with unusual punctuality, and 
packed her trunks with delightful rapidity. 

As the family was to leave in a week, her sudden 
departure caused no surprise to the few who knew her, 
and with kind farewells to such of her summer friends 
as still remained, she went to bed that night all ready 
for an early start. She saw nothing more of Mr. 
Fletcher that day, but the sound of excited voices in 
the drawing-room assured her that madame was having 
it out with her brother; and with truly feminine incon- 
sistency Christie hoped that she would not be too hard 
upon the poor man, for, after all, it was kind of him to 
overlook the actress, and ask the governess to share his 
good things with him. 

She did not repent, but she got herself to sleep, 
imagining a bridal trip to Paris, and dreamed so 
delightfully of lost splendors that the awakening was 
rather blank, the future rather cold and hard. 

She was early astir, meaning to take the first boat 
and so escape all disagreeable rencontres, and having 
kissed the children in their little beds, with tender 
promises not to forget them, she took a hasty breakfast 
and stepped into the carriage waiting at the door. The 


GOVERNESS. 91 


sleepy waiters stared, a friendly housemaid nodded, 
and Miss Walker, the hearty English lady who did her 
ten miles a day, cried out, as she tramped by, blooming 
and bedraggled : 

“ Bless me, are you off ?” 

“Yes, thank Heaven!” answered Christie; but as 
she spoke Mr. Fletcher came down the steps looking as 
wan and heavy-eyed as if a sleepless night had been 
added to his day’s defeat. Leaning in at the window, 
he asked abruptly, but with a look she never could 
forget: 

“ Will nothing change your answer, Christie?” 

“ Nothing.” 

‘His eyes said, “Forgive me,” but his lips only said, 
“ Good-by,” and the carriage rolled away. 

Then, being a woman, two great tears fell on the 
hand still red with the lingering grasp he had given it, 
and Christie said, as pitifully as if she loved him: 

“He has got a heart, after all, and perhaps I might 
have been glad to fill it if he had only shown it to me 
sooner. Now it is too late.” 


CHAPTER V. 


COMPANION. 


EFORE she had time to find a new situation, 
Christie received a note from Miss Tudor, saying 
that hearing she had left Mrs. Saltonstall she wanted 
to offer her the place of companion to an invalid girl, 
where the duties were light and the compensation large. 
“Tlow kind of her to think of me,” said Christie, 
gratefully. “I?ll go at onee and do my best to secure 
it, for it must be a good thing or she wouldn’t recom- 
mend it.” 

Away went Christie to the address sent by Miss 
Tudor, and as she waited at the door she thought: 

“ What a happy family the Carrols must be!” for the 
house was one of an imposing block in a West End 
square, which had its own little park where a fountain 
sparkled in the autumn sunshine, and pretty children 
played among the fallen leaves. 

Mrs. Carrol was a stately woman, still beautiful in 
spite of her fifty years. But though there were few 
lines on her forehead, few silver threads in the dark 
hair that lay smoothly over it, and a gracious smile 
showed the fine teeth, an indescribable expression of 
unsubmissive sorrow touched the whole face, betraying 
that life had brought some heavy cross, from which her 


COMPANION. 7 OF 


wealth could purchase no release, for which her pride 
could find no effectual screen. 

She looked at Christie with a searching eye, listened 
attentively when she spoke, and seemed testing her 
with covert care as if the place she was to fill demanded 
some unusual gift or skill. 

“ Miss Tudor tells me that you read aloud well, sing 
sweetly, possess a cheerful temper, and the quiet, patient 
ways which are peculiarly grateful to an invalid,” began 
Mrs. Carrol, with that keen yet wistful gaze, and an 
anxious accent in her voice that went to Christie’s 
heart. 

“ Miss Tudor is very kind to think so well of me and 
my few accomplishments. I have never been with an 
invalid, but I think I can promise to be patient, willing, 
and cheerful. My own experience of illness has taught 
me how to sympathize with others and love to lighten 
pain. I shall be very glad to try if you think I have 
any fitness for the place.” 

“TI do,’ and Mrs. Carrol’s face softened as she spoke, 
for something in Christie’s words or manner seemed to 
please her. Then slowly, as if the task was a hard one, 
she added: 

“ My daughter has been very ill and is still weak and 
nervous. I must hint to you that the loss of one very 
dear to her was the cause of the illness and the melan- 
choly which now oppresses her. Therefore we must 
avoid any thing that can suggest or recall this trouble. 
She cares for nothing as yet, will see no one, and pre- 
fers to live alone. She is still so feeble this is but 
natural; yet solitude is bad for her, and her physician 
thinks that a new face might rouse her, and the society 


94 WORK. 


of one in no way connected with the painful past might 
interest and do her good. You see it is a little difficult 
to find just what we want, for a young companion is 
best, yet must be discreet and firm, as few young people 
are.” | 
Fancying from Mrs. Carrol’s manner that Miss Tudor 
had said more in her favor than had been repeated to 
her, Christie in a few plain words told her little story, 
resolving to have no concealments here, and feeling 
that perhaps her experiences might have given her 
more firmness and discretion than many women of her 
age possessed. Mrs. Carrol seemed to find it so; the 
anxious look lifted a little as she listened, and when 
Christie ended she said, with a sigh of relief: 

“ Yes, I think Miss Tudor is right, and you are the 
one we want. Come and try it for a week and then we 
can decide. Can you begin to-day?” she added, as 
Christie rose. “Every hour is precious, for my poor 
girl’s sad solitude weighs on my heart, and this is my 
one hope.” 

“JT will stay with pleasure,” answered Christie, think- 
ing Mrs. Carrol’s anxiety excessive, yet pitying the 
mother’s pain, for something in her face suggested the 
idea that she reproached herself in some way for her 
dauchter’s state. 

With secret gratitude that she had dressed with care, 
Christie took off her things and followed Mrs. Carrol 
upstairs. Entering a room in what seemed to be a 
wing of the great house, they found an old woman 
sewing. 

“How is Helen to-day, Nurse?” asked Mrs. Carrol, 
pausing. 


COMPANION. 95 


* Poorly, ma’am. I’ve been in every hour, but she 
only says: ‘Let me be quiet, and lies looking up at the 
picture till it’s fit to break your heart to see her,” 
answered the woman, with a shake of the head. 

“JT have brought Miss Devon to sit with her a little 
while. Doctor advises it, and I fancy the experiment 
may succeed if we can only amuse the dear child, and 
make her forget herself and her troubles.” 

“ As you please, ma’am,” said the old woman, look- 
ing with little favor at the new-comer, for the good soul 
was jealous of any interference between herself and 
the child she had tended for years. 

“TI won’t disturb her, but you shall take Miss Devon 
in and tell Helen mamma sends her love, and hopes 
she will make an effort for all our sakes.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Go, my dear, and do your best.” With these words 
Mrs. Carrol hastily left the room, and Christie followed 
Nurse. 

A quick glance showed her that she was in the dain- 
tily furnished boudoir of a rich man’s daughter, but 
before she could take a second look her eyes were 
arrested by the occupant of this pretty place, and she 
forgot all else. On a low luxurious couch lay a girl, so 
beautiful and pale and still, that for an instant Christie 
thought her dead or sleeping. She was neither, for at 
the sound of a voice the great eyes opened wide, dark.. 
ening and dilating with a strange expression as they 
fell on the unfamiliar face. 

“Nurse, who is that? I told you I would see no 
one. I’m too ill to be so worried,” she said, in an im- 
perious tone. 


96 WORK. 


HELEN CARROL, 


“ Yes, dear, I know, but your mamma wished you to 
make an effort. Miss Devon is to sit with you and try 
to cheer you up a bit,” said the old woman in a dissat-_ 
isfied tone, that contrasted strangely with the tender 
way in which she stroked the beautiful disordered hair 
that hung about the girl’s shoulders. 

Helen knit her brows and looked most ungracious, 
but evidently tried to be civil, for with a courteous 
wave of her hand toward an easy chair in the sunny 
window she said, quietly : 


COMPANION. OT 


“Please sit down, Miss Devon, and excuse me for a 
little while. I’ve had a bad night, and am too tired to 
talk just yet. There are books of all sorts, or the con- 
servatory if you like it better.” 

“Thank you. I7ll read quietly till you want me. 
Then I shall be very glad to do any thing I can for 
you.” ; 

With that Christie retired to the big chair, and fell 
to reading the first book she took up, a good deal em- 
barrassed by her reception, and very curious to know 
what would come next. 

The old woman went away after folding the down 
coverlet carefully over her darling’s feet, and Helen 
seemed to go to sleep. 

For a time the room was very still; the fire burned 
softly on the marble hearth, the sun shone warmly on 
velvet carpet and rich hangings, the delicate breath of 
flowers blew in through the half-open door that led to 
a gay little conservatory, and nothing but the roll of a 
distant carriage broke the silence now and then. 

Christie’s eyes soon wandered from her book to the 
lovely face and motionless figure on the couch. Just 
opposite, in a recess, hung the portrait of a young and 
handsome man, and below it stood a vase of flowers, a 
graceful Roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it 
were the shrine where some dead love was mourned 
and worshipped still. 

As she looked from the living face, so pale and so 
pathetic in its quietude, to the painted one so full of 
color, strength, and happiness, her heart ached for poor 
Helen, and her eyes were wet with tears of pity. A 
sudden movement on the couch gave her no time to 

5 G 


98 WORK. 


hide them, and as she hastily looked down upon het 
book a treacherous drop fell glittering on the page. 

“ What have you there so interesting ?” asked Helen, 
in that softly imperious tone of hers. 

“ Don Quixote,” answered Christie, too much abashed 
to have her wits about her. 

Helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying 
wearily : 

“They gave me that to make me laugh, but I did not 
find it funny; neither was it sad enough to make me 
cry as you do.” 

“T was not reading, I was” —there Christie broke 
down, and could have cried with vexation at the bad 
beginning she had made. But that involuntary tear 
was better balm to Helen than the most perfect tact, 
the most brilliant conversation. It touched and won 
her without words, for sympathy works miracles. Her 
whole face changed, and her mournful eyes grew soft 
as with the gentle freedom of a child she lifted Chris- 
tie’s downcast face and said, with a falter in her voice: 

“7 know you were pitying me. Well, I need pity, and 
from you Ill take it, because you don’t force it on me. 
Have you been ill and wretched too? TI think so, else 
you would never care to come and shut yourself up 
here with me!” 

“T have been ill, and I know how hard it is to get 
one’s spirits back again. I’ve had my troubles, too, 
but not heavier than I could bear, thank God.” 

“What made you ill? Would you mind telling me 
about it? I seem to fancy hearing other people’s woes, 
though it can’t make mine seem lighter.” 

“ A piece of the Castle of the Sun fell on my head 


COMPANION, 99 


and nearly killed me,” and Christie laughed in spite of 
herself at the astonishment in Helen’s face. “I was 
an actress once; your mother knows and didn’t mind,” 
she added, quickly. 

“T’m glad of that. I used to wish I could be one, I 
was so fond of the theatre. They should have con- 
sented, it would have given me something to do, and, 
however hard it is, it couldn’t be worse than this.” 
Helen spoke vehemently and an excited flush rose to 
her white cheeks; then she checked herself and dropped 
into a chair, saying, hurriedly : 

“ Tell about it: don’t let me think; it’s bad for me.” 

Glad to be set to work, and bent on retrieving her 
first mistake, Christie plunged into her theatrical experi- 
ences and talked away in her most lively style. People 
usually get eloquent when telling their own stories, 
and true tales are always the most interesting. Helen 
listened at first with a half-absent air, but presently 
grew more attentive, and when the catastrophe came 
sat erect, quite absorbed in the interest of this glimpse 
behind the curtain. 

Charmed with her success, Christie branched off right 
~and left, stimulated by questions, led on by suggestive 
incidents, and generously supplied by memory. Before 
she knew it, she was telling her whole history in the 
most expansive manner, for women soon get sociable 
together, and Helen’s interest flattered her immensely. 
Once she made her laugh at some droll trifle, and as if 
the unaccustomed sound had startled her, old nurse 
popped in her head; but seeing nothing amiss retired, 
wondering what on earth that girl could be doing to 
cheer up Miss Helen so. 


100 Work. 


“Tell about your lovers: you must have had some; 
actresses always do. Happy women, they can love as 
they like!” said Helen, with the inquisitive frankness 
of an invalid for whom etiquette has ceased to exist. - 

temembering in time that this was a forbidden sub- 
ject, Christie smiled and shook her head. 

“TI had a few, but one does not tell those secrets, you 
know.” 

Evidently disappointed, and a little displeased at 
being reminded of her want of good-breeding, Helen 
got up and began to wander restlessly about the room. 
Presently, as if wishing to atone for her impatience, 
she bade Christie come and see her flowers. Following 
her, the new companion found herself in a little world 
where perpetual summer reigned. Vines curtained the 
roof, slender shrubs and trees made leafy walls on either 
side, flowers bloomed above and below, birds carolled 
in half-hidden prisons, aquariums and ferneries stood 
all about, and the soft plash of a little fountain made 
pleasant music as it rose and fell. 

Helen threw herself wearily down on a pile of cush- 
ions that lay beside the basin, and beckoning Christie 
to sit near, said, as she pressed her hands to her hot 
forehead and looked up with a distressful brightness in 
the haggard eyes that seemed to have no rest in them: 

“Please sing to me; any humdrum air will do. I 
am so tired, and yet I cannot sleep. If my head would 
only stop this dreadful thinking and let me forget one 
hour it would do me so much good.” 

“T know the feeling, and I’ll try what Lucy used to ~ 
do to quiet me. Put your poor head in my lap, dear, 
and lie quite still while I cool and comfort it.” 


COMPANION. 101 


Obeying like a worn-out child, Helen lay motionless 
while Christie, dipping her fingers in the basin, passed 
the wet tips softly to and fro across the hot forehead, 
and the thin temples where the pulses throbbed so, fast. 
And while she soothed she sang the “ Land o’ the Leal,” 
and sang it well; for the tender words, the plaintive 
air were dear to her, because her mother loved and 
sang it to her years ago. Slowly the heavy eyelids 
drooped, slowly the lines of pain were smoothed away 
from the broad brow, slowly the restless hands grew 
still, and Helen lay asleep. 

So intent upon her task was Christie, that she forgot 
herself till the discomfort of her position reminded her 
that she had a body. Fearing to wake the poor girl in 
her arms, she tried to lean against the basin, but could 
not reach a cushion to lay upon the cold stone ledge. 
An unseen hand supplied the want, and, looking round, 
she saw two young men standing behind her. 

Helen’s brothers, without doubt; for, though utterly 
unlike in expression, some of the family traits were 
strongly marked in both. The elder wore the dress of 
a priest, had a pale, ascetic face, with melancholy eyes, 
stern mouth, and the absent air of one who leads an 
inward life. The younger had a more attractive face, 
for, though bearing marks of dissipation, it betrayed a 
generous, ardent nature, proud and wilful, yet lovable 
in spite of all defects. He was very boyish still, and 
plainly showed how much he felt, as, with a hasty nod 
to Christie, he knelt down beside his sister, saying, in a 
whisper: 

“Look at her, Augustine! so beautiful, so quiet! 
What a comfort it is to see her like herself again.” 


102 WORK. 


“ Ah, yes; and but for the sin of it, I could find it in 
my heart to wish she might never wake!” returned the 
other, gloomily. 

“Don’t say that! Wow could we live without her ?” 
Then, turning to Christie, the younger said, in a friendly 
tone: 

“You must be very tired; let us lay her on the sofa. 
It is very damp here, and if she sleeps long you will 
faint from weariness.” 

Carefully lifting her, the brothers carried the sleeping 
girl into her room, and laid her down. She sighed 
as her head touched the pillow, and her arm clung to 
Harry’s neck, as if she felt his nearness even in sleep. 
He put his cheek to hers, and lingered over her with 
an affectionate solicitude beautiful to see. Augustine 
stood silent, grave and cold as if he had done with 
human ties, yet found it hard to sever this one, for he 
stretched his hand above his sister as if he blessed her, 
then; with another grave bow to Christie, went away 
as noiselessly as he had come. But Harry kissed the 
sleeper tenderly, whispered, “ Be kind to her,” with an 
imploring voice, and hurried from the room as if to 
hide the feeling that he must not show. 

A few minutes later the nurse brought in a note from 
Mrs. Carrol. 

“My son tells me that Helen is asleep, and you look 
very tired. Leave her to Hester, now; you have done 
enough to-day, so let me thank you heartily, and send 
you home for a quiet night before you continue your 
good work to-morrow.” 

Christie went, found a carriage waiting for her, and 
drove home very happy at the success of her first 
attempt at companionship. 


COMPANION. 103 


The next day she entered upon the new duties with 
interest and good-will, for this was work in which heart 
took part, as well as head and hand. Many things 
surprised, and some things perplexed her, as she came 
to know the family better. But she discreetly held ber 
tongue, used her eyes, and did her best to please. 

Mrs. Carrol seemed satisfied, often thanked her for 
her faithfulness to Helen, but seldom visited her daugh- 
ter, never seemed surprised or grieved that the girl 
expressed no wish to see her; and, though her hand- 
some face always wore its gracious smile, Christie soon 
felt very sure that it was a mask put on to hide some 
heavy sorrow from a curious world. 

Augustine never came except when Helen was asleep: 
then, like a shadow, he passed in and out, always silent, 
cold, and grave, but in his eyes the gloom of some 
remorseful pain that prayers and penances seemed pow- 
erless to heal. 

Harry came every day, and no matter how melan- 
choly, listless, or irritable his sister might be, for him 
she always had asmile, an affectionate greeting, a word 
of praise, or a tender warning against the reckless spirit 
that seemed to possess him. The love between them 
was very strong, and Christie found a never-failing 
pleasure in watching them together, for then Helen 
showed what she once had been, and Harry was his best 
self. A boy still, in spite of his one-and-twenty years, 
he seemed to feel that Helen’s room was a safe refuge 
from the temptations that beset one of his thoughtless 
and impetuous nature. Here he came to confess his 
faults and follies with the frankness which is half sad, 
half comical, and wholly charming in a good-hearted 


104 WORK, 


young scatter-brain. Here he brought gay gossip, lively 
descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world he 
moved in. All his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, 
successes and defeats, he told to Helen. And she, poor 
soul, in this one happy love of her sad life, forgot a 
little the burden of despair that darkened all the world 
to her. For his sake she smiled, to him she talked 
when others got no word from her, and Harry’s salva- 
tion was the only duty that she owned or tried to fulfil. 

A younger sister was away at school, but the others 
seldom spoke of her, and Christie tired herself with 
wondering why Bella never wrote to Helen, and why 
Harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of 
pity to bestow upon the blooming girl whose picture 
hung in the great drawing-room below. 

It was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one 
to Christie, for she felt herself loved and trusted, saw 
that she suited, and believed that she was doing good, 
as women best love to do it, by bestowing sympathy 
and care with generous devotion. 

Helen and Harry loved her like an elder sister; 
Augustine showed that he was grateful, and Mrs. Car- 
rol sometimes forgot-to put on her mask before one who 
seemed fast becoming confidante as well as companion. 

In the spring the family went to the fine old country- 
house just out of town, and here Christie and her 
charge led a freer, happier life. Walking and driving, 
boating and gardening, with pleasant days on the wide 
terrace, where Helen swung idly in her hammock, while 
Christie read or talked to her; and summer twilights 
beguiled with music, or the silent reveries more elo- 
quent than speech, which real friends may enjoy to- 


COMPANION. 105 


gether, and find the sweeter for the mute companion- 
ship. 

Harry was with them, and devoted to his sister, who 
seemed slowly to be coming out of her sad gloom, won 
by patient tenderness and the cheerful influences all 
about her. 

Christie’s heart was full of pride and satisfaction, as 
she saw the altered face, heard the tone of interest in 
that once hopeless voice, and felt each day more sure 
that Helen had outlived the loss that seemed to have 
broken her heart. 

Alas, for Christie’s pride, for Harry’s hope, and for 
poor Helen’s bitter fate! When all was brightest, the 
black shadow came; when all looked safest, danger 
was at hand; and when the past seemed buried, the 
ghost which haunted it returned, for the punishment 
of a broken law is as inevitable as death. 

When settled in town again Bella came home, a gay, 
young girl, who should have brought sunshine and hap- 
piness into her home. But from the hour she returned 
astrange anxiety seemed to possess the others. Mrs. 
Carrol watched over her with sleepless care, was evi- 
dently full of maternal pride in the lovely creature, and 
began to dream dreams about her future. She seemed 
to wish to keep the sisters apart, and said to Christie, 
as if to explain this wish : 

“ Bella was away when Helen’s trouble and illness 
came, she knows very little of it, and I do not want 
her to be saddened by the knowledge. Helen cares 
only for Hal, and Bella is too young to be of any use 
to my poor girl; therefore the less they see of each 
other the better for both. I am sure you agree with 

5* 


106 WORK. 


me?” she added, with that covert scrutiny which Chris- 
tie had often felt before. 

She could but acquiesce in the mother’s decision, and 
devote herself more faithfully than ever to Helen, who 
soon needed all her care and patience, for a terrible 
unrest grew upon her, bringing sleepless nights again, 
moody days, and all the old afflictions with redoubled 
force. 

Bella “ came out” and began her career as a beauty 
and a belle most brilliantly. Harry was proud of her, 
but seemed jealous of other men’s admiration for his 
charming sister, and would excite both Helen and him- 
self over the flirtations into which “that child” as they 
called her, plunged with all the zest of a light-hearted 
girl whose head was a little turned with sudden and 
excessive adoration. 

In vain Christie begged Harry not to report these 
things, in vain she hinted that Bella had better not 
come to show herself to Helen night after night in all 
the dainty splendor of her youth and beauty; in vain 
she asked Mrs. Carrol to let her go away to some 
quieter place with Helen, since she never could be per- 
suaded to join in any gayety at home or abroad. All 
seemed wilful, blind, or governed by the fear of the 
gossiping world. So the days rolled on till an event 
occurred which enlightened Christie, with startling 
abruptness, and showed her the skeleton that haunted 
this unhappy family. 

Going in one morning to Helen she found her walk- 
ing to and fro as she often walked of late, with hurried 
steps and excited face as if driven by some power 
beyond her control. 


-_—- 


COMPANION. 107 


“Good morning, dear. I’m so sorry you had a rest- 
less night, and wish you had sent for me. Will you 
come out now for an early drive? It’s a lovely day, 
and your mother thinks it would do you good,” began 
Christie, troubled by the state in which she found the 
girl. 

But as she spoke Helen turned on her, crying pas- 
sionately : 

“ My mother! don’t speak of her to me, I hate her!” 

“Oh, Helen, don’t say that. Forgive and forget if 
she has displeased you, and don’t exhaust yourself by 
brooding over it. Come, dear, and let us soothe our- 
selves with a little music. I want to hear that new 
song again, though I can never hope to sing it as you 
do.” 

“Sing!” echoed Helen, with a shrill laugh, “ you 
don’t know what you ask. Could you sing when your 
heart was heavy with the knowledge of a sin about to 
be committed by those nearest to you? Don’t try to 
quiet me, I must talk whether you listen or not; I shall 
go frantic if I don’t tell some one; all the world will 
know it soon. Sit down, I’ll not hurt you, but don’t 
thwart me or you’ll be sorry for it.” 

Speaking with a vehemence that left her breathless, 
Helen thrust Christie down upon a seat, and went on 
with an expression in her face that bereft the listener 
of power to move or speak. 

“ Harry has just told me of it; he was very angry, 
and I saw it, and made him tell me. Poor boy, he can 
keep nothing from me. I’ve been dreading it, and 
now it’s coming. You don’t know it, then? Young 
Butler is in love with Bella, and no one has pre- 


108 WORK. 


vented it. Think how wicked when such a curse is on 
us all.” 

The question, “ What curse?” rose involuntarily to 
Christie’s lips, but did not pass them for, as if she read 
the thought, Helen answered it in « whisper that made 
the blood tingle in the other’s veins, so full of ominous 
suggestion was it. 

“The curse of insanity I mean. We are all mad, or 
shall be; we come of a mad race, and for years we 
have gone recklessly on bequeathing this awful inheri- 
tance to our descendants. It should end with us, we 
are the last; none of us should marry; none dare think 
of it but Bella, and she knows nothing. She must be 
told, she must be kept from the sin of deceiving her 
‘lover, the agony of seeing her children become what I 
am, and what we all may be.” 

Here Helen wrung her hands and paced the room,in 
such a paroxysm of impotent despair that Christie sat 
bewildered and aghast, wondering if this were true, or 
but the fancy of a troubled brain. Mrs. Carrol’s face 
and manner returned to her with sudden vividness, so 
did Augustine’s gloomy expression, and the strange 
wish uttered over his sleeping sister long ago. Harry’s 
reckless, aimless life might be explained in this way; 
and all that had perplexed her through that year. 
Every thing confirmed the belief that this tragical 
assertion was true, and Christie covered up her face, 
murmuring, with an involuntary shiver: 

“ My God, how terrible!” 

Helen came and stood before her with such grief and 
penitence in her countenance that for a moment it con. 
quered the despair that had broken bounds. 


COMPANION. 109 


“We should have told you this at first; I longed to 
do it, but I was afraid you’d go and leave me. I was 
so lonely, so miserable, Christie. I could not give you 
up when I had learned to love you; and I did learn 
very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help 
and comfort more than I. For your sake I tried to be 
quiet, to control my shattered nerves, and hide my 
desperate thoughts. You helped me very much, and 
your unconsciousness made me doubly watchful. For- 
give me; don’t desert me now, for the old horror may 
be coming back, and I want you more than ever.” 

Too much moved to speak, Christie held out her 
hands, with a face full of pity, love, and grief. Poor 
Helen clung to them as if her only help lay there, and 
for a moment was quite still. But not. long; the old 
anguish was too sharp to be borne in silence; the relief 
of confidence once tasted was too great to be denied; 
and, breaking loose, she went to and fro again, pouring 
out the bitter secret which had been weighing upon 
heart and conscience for a year. 

“You wonder that I hate my mother; let me tell 
you why. When she was beautiful and young she 
married, knowing the sad history of my father’s family. 
He was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her 
wicked, and she did it after being warned that, though 
he might escape, his children were sure to inherit the 
curse, for when one generation goes free it falls more 
heavily upon the rest. She knew it all, and yet she 
married him. I have her to thank for all I suffer, and 
I cannot love her though she is my mother. It may be 
wrong to say these things, but they are true; they 
burn in my heart, and I must speak out; for I tell you 


110 WORK. 


there comes a time when children judge their parents 
as men and women, in spite of filial duty, and woe to 
those whose actions change affection and respect to 
hatred or contempt.” 

The bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both 
touched and awed Christie too much for speech. Helen 
had passed beyond the bounds of ceremony, fear, or 
shame: her hard lot, her dark experience, set her apart, 
and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. To 
her heart’s core Christie felt that warning; and for the 
first time saw what many never see or wilfully deny, — 
the awful responsibility that lies on every man and 
woman’s soul forbidding them to entail upon the inno- 
cent the burden of their own infirmities, the curse that 
surely follows their own sins. 

Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most un- 
happy daughter spoke: 

“If ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my 
mother; but she will not, and till she does, God has 
forsaken us. Nothing can subdue her pride, not even 
an affliction like mine. She hides the truth; she hides 
me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consump- 
tion; not a word about insanity, and no one knows the 
secret beyond ourselves, but doctor, nurse, and you, 
This is why I was not sent away, but for a year was 
shut up in that room yonder where the door is always 
locked. If you look in, you’ll see barred windows, 
guarded fire, muffled walls, and other sights to chill 
your blood, when you remember all those dreadful 
things were meant for me.” 

“ Don’t speak, don’t think of them! Don’t talk any 
more; let me do something to comfort you, for my 


COMPANION. 111 


heart is broken with all this,” cried Christie, panic- 
stricken at the picture Helen’s words had conjured ap. 

“T must go on! There is no rest for me till I have 
tried to lighten this burden by sharing it with you. 
Let me talk, let me wear myself out, then you shall 
help and comfort me, if there is any help and comfort 
for such as I. NowTI can tell you all about my Edward, 
and you'll listen, though mamma forbade it. Three 
years ago my father died, and we came here. I was 
well then, and oh, how happy!” 

Clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a 
beautiful, pale image of despair; tearless and mute, but 
with such a world of anguish in the eyes lifted to the 
smiling picture opposite that it needed no words to tell 
the story of a broken heart. 

“ How I loved him!” she said, softly, while her whole 
face glowed for an instant with the light and warmth 
of a deathless passion. “ How I loved him, and how 
he loved me! Too well to let me darken both our 
lives with a remorse which would come too late for a 
just atonement. I thought him cruel then, —I bless 
him for it now. I had far rather be the innocent suf- 
ferer I am, than a wretched woman like my mother. I 
shall never see him any more, but I know he thinks of 
me far away in India, and when I die one faithful heart 
will remember me.” 

There her voice faltered and failed, and for a moment 
the fire of her eyes was quenched in tears. Christie 
thought the reaction had come, and rose to go and com- 
fort her. But instantly Helen’s hand was on her shoul- 
der, and pressing her back into her seat, she said, almost 
fiercely : 


112 WORK. 


“I’m not done yet; you must hear the whole, and 
help me to save Bella. We knew nothing of the blight 
that hung over us till father told Augustine upon his 
death-bed. August, urged by mother, kept it to him- 
self, and went away to bear it as he could, He should 
have spoken out and saved me in time. But not till’ 
he came home and found me engaged did he have 
courage to warn me of the fate in store for us. So 
Edward tore himself away, although it broke his heart, 
and I — do you see that?” 

With a quick gesture she rent open her dress, and 
on her bosom Christie saw a scar that made her turn 
yet paler than before. 

“ Yes, I tried to kill myself; but they would not let 
me die, so the old tragedy of our house begins again. 
August became a priest, hoping to hide his calamity 
and expiate his father’s sin by endless penances and 
prayers. Harry turned reckless; for what had he to 
look forward to? A short life, and a gay one, he says, 
and when his turn comes he will spare himself long 
suffering, as I tried to do it. Bella was never told; 
she was so young they kept her ignorant of ali they 
could, even the knowledge of my state. She was long 
away at school, but now she has come home, now she 
has learned to love, and is going blindly as I went, 
because no one tells her what she must know soon or 
late. Mamma will not. August hesitates, remember- 
ing me. Harry swears he will speak out, but I implore 
him not to do it, for he will be too violent; and I am 
powerless. I never knew about this man till Hal told 
me to-day. Bella only comes in for a moment, and I 
have no chance to tell her she must noé love him.” 


COMPANION. 113 


Pressing her hands to her temples, Helen resumed 
her restless march again, but suddenly broke out more 
violently than before: 

“ Now do you wonder why I am half frantic? Now 
will you ask me to sing and smile, and sit calmly by 
while this wrong goes on? You have done much for 
me, and God will bless you for it, but you cannot keep 
me sane. Death is the only cure for a mad Carrol, and 
I’m so young, so strong, it will be long in coming 
unless [ hurry it.” 

She clenched her hands, set her teeth, and looked 
about her as if ready for any desperate act that should 
set her free from the dark and dreadful future that lay 
before her. 

For a moment Christie feared and trembled; then 
pity conquered fear. She forgot herself, and only 
remembered this poor girl, so hopeless, helpless, and 
afflicted. Led by a sudden impulse, she put both arms 
about her, and held her close with a strong but silent 
tenderness better than any bonds. At first, Helen 
seemed unconscious of it, as she stood rigid and motion- 
less, with her wild eyes dumbly imploring help of earth 
and heaven. Suddenly both strength and excitement 
seemed to leave her, and she would have fallen but for 
the living, loving prop that sustained her. 

Still silent, Christie laid her down, kissed hez white 
lips, and busied herself about her till she looked up 
quite herself again, but so wan and weak, it was pitiful 
to see her. 

“Tt ’s over now,” she whispered, with a desolate sigh. 
‘Sing to me, and keep the evil spirit quiet for a little 

H 


114 WORK. 


while. To-morrow, if I’m strong enough, we’ll talk 
about poor little Bella.” 

And Christie sang, with tears dropping fast upon the 
keys, that made a soft accompaniment to the sweet old 
hymns which soothed this troubled soul as David’s 
music brought repose to Saul. 

When Helen slept at last from sheer exhaustion, 
Christie executed the resolution she had made as soon 
as the excitement of that stormy scene was over. She 
went straight to Mrs. Carrol’s room, and, undeterred 
by the presence of her sons, told all that had passed, 
They were evidently not unprepared for it, thanks to 
old Hester, who had overheard enough of Helen’s 
wild words to know that something was amiss, and 
had reported accordingly; but none of them had vent- 
ured to interrupt the interview, lest Helen should be 
driven to desperation as before. 

“ Mother, Helen is right; we should speak out, and 
not hide this bitter fact any longer. The world will 
pity us, and we must bear the pity, but it would con- 
demn us for deceit, and we should deserve the condem- 
nation if we let this misery go on. Living a lie will 
ruin us all. Bella will be destroyed as Helen was; I 
am only the shadow of a man now, and Hal is killing 
himself as fast as he can, to avoid the fate we all dread.” 

Augustine spoke first, for Mrs. Carrol sat speechless 
with her trouble as Christie paused. 

“ Keep to your prayers, and let me go my own way, 
it’s the shortest,” muttered Harry, with his face hidden, 
and his head down on his folded arms. 

“ Boys, boys, you'll kill me if you say such things! 
I have more now than I can bear. Don’t drive me 


COMPANION. 115 
wild with your reproaches to each other!” cried their 
mother, her heart rent with the remorse that came too 
late. 

“ No fear of that; you are not a Carrol,” answered 
Harry, with the pitiless bluntness of a resentful and 
rebellious boy. 

Augustine turned on him with a wrathful flash of the 
eye, and a warning ring in his stern voice, as he pointea 
to the door. 

“ You shall not insult your mother! Ask her pardon, 
or go!” 

“She should ask mine! Ill go. When you want 
me, you’ll know where to find me.” And, with a reck- 
less laugh, Harry stormed out of the room. 

Augustine’s indignant face grew full of a new trouble 
as the door banged below, and he pressed his thin 
hands tightly together, saying, as if to himself: 

“Heaven help me! Yes, I do know; for, night after 
night, I find and bring the poor lad home from gamb- 
ling-tables and the hells where souls like his are lost.” 

Here Christie thought to slip away, feeling that it 
was no place for her now that her errand was done. 
But Mrs. Carrol called her back. 

“ Miss Devon — Christie — forgive me that I did not 
trust you sooner. It was so hard to tell; I hoped so 
much from time; I never could believe that my poor 
children would be made the victims of my mistake. 
Do not forsake us: Helen loves youso. Stay with her, 
Timplore you, and let a most unhappy mother plead 
for a most unhappy child.” Then Christie went to the 
poor woman, and earnestly assured her of her love and 
loyalty ; for now she felt doubly bound to them because 
they trusted her. 


116 WORK. 


“ What shall we do?” they said to her, with pathetic 
submission, turning like sick people to a healthful soul 
for help and comfort. 

“Tell Bella all the truth, and help her to refuse her 
lover. Do this just thing, and God will strengthen 
you to bear the consequences,” was her answer, though 
she trembled at the responsibility they put upon her. 

“Not yet,” cried Mrs. Carrol. “ Let the poor child 
enjoy the holidays with a light heart, — then we will 
tell her; and then Heaven help us all!” 

So it was decided ; for only a week or two of the old 
year remained, and no one had the heart to rob poor 
Bella of the little span of blissful ignorance that now 
remained to her. 

A terrible time was that to Christie; for, while one 
sister, blessed with beauty, youth, love, and pleasure, 
tasted life at its sweetest, the other sat in the black 
shadow of a growing dread, and wearied Heaven with 
piteous prayers for her relief. 

“The old horror is coming back; I feel it creeping 
over me. Don’t let it come, Christie! Stay by me! 
Help me! Keep me sane! And if you cannot, ask 
God to take me quickly!” 

With words like these, poor Helen clung to Christie ; 
and, soul and body, Christie devoted herself to the 
afflicted girl. She would not see her mother; and the 
unhappy woman haunted that closed door, hungering 
for the look, the word, that never came to her. Augus- 
tine was her consolation, and, during those troublous 
days, the priest was forgotten in the son. But Harry 
was all in all to Helen then; and it was touchirg to 
see how these unfortunate young creatures clung to one 


COMPANION. 117 


another, she tenderly trying to keep him from the wild 
life that was surely hastening the fate he might other- 
wise escape for years, and he patiently bearing all her 
moods, eager to cheer and soothe the sad captivity from 
which he could not save her. 

These tender ministrations seemed to be blessed at 
last; and Christie began to hope the haunting terror 
would pass by, as quiet gloom succeeded to wild excite- 
‘ment. The cheerful spirit of the season seemed to 
reach even that sad room; and, in preparing gifts for 
others, Helen seemed to find a little of that best of all 
gifts, — peace for herself. 

On New Year’s morning, Christie found her garland- 
ing her lover’s picture with white roses and the myrtle 
sprays brides wear. 

“ These were his favorite flowers, and I meant to 
make my wedding wreath of this sweet-scented myrtle, 
because he gave it to me,” she said, with a look that 
made Christie’s eyes grow dim. “Don’t grieve for me, 
dear; we shall surely meet hereafter, though so far 
asunder here. Nothing can part us there, I devoutly 
believe ; for we leave our burdens all behind us when 
we go.” Then, in a lighter tone, she said, with her arm 
on Christie’s neck : 

“This day is to be a happy one, no matter what 
comes after it. I’m going to be my old self for a little 
while, and forget there’s such a word as sorrow. Help 
me to dress, so that when the boys come up they may 
find the sister Nell they have not seen for two long 
years.” 

“Will you wear this, my darling? Your mother 
sends it, and she tried to have it dainty and beautifu 


118 | WORK. 


enough to please you. See, your own colors, though 
the bows are only laid on that they may be changed 
for others if you like.” 

As she spoke Christie lifted the cover of the box old 
Hester had just brought in, and displayed a cashmere 
wrapper, creamy-white, silk-lined, down-trimmed, and 
delicately relieved by rosy knots, like holly berries lying 
upon snow. Helen looked at it without a word for 
several minutes, then gathering up the ribbons, with a 
strange smile, she said : 

“TJ like it better so; but Ill not wear it yet.” 

“ Bless and save us, deary; it must have a bit of 
color somewhere, else it looks just like a shroud,” cried 
Hester, and then wrung her hands in dismay as Helen 
answered, quietly: 

“ Ah, well, keep it for me, then. I shall be happier 
when I weer it so than in the gayest gown I own, for 
when yon put it on, this poor head and heart of mine 
will be quiet at last.” 

Motioning Hester to remove the box, Christie tried 
to banish the cloud her unlucky words had brought to 
Helen’s face, by chatting cheerfully as she helped her 
make herself “ pretty for the boys.” 

All that day she was unusually calm and sweet, and 
seemed to yield herself wholly to the happy influences 
cf the hour, gave and received her gifts so cheerfully 
that her brothers watched her with delight; and uncon- 
scious Bella said, as she hung about her sister, with 
loving admiration in her eyes: 

“T always thought you would get well, and now I’m 
sure of it, for you look as you used before I went away 
to school, and seem just like our own dear Nell.” 


COMPANION. 119 


“I’m glad of that; I wanted you to feel so, my 
Bella. I’ll accept your happy prophecy, and hope I 
may get well soon, very soon.” 

So cheerfully she spoke, so tranquilly she smiled, 
that all rejoiced over her believing, with love’s blind- 
ness, that she might yet conquer her malady in spite of 
their forebodings. 

It was a very happy day to Christie, not only that 
she was generously remembered and made one of them 
by all the family, but because this change for the better 
in Helen made her heart sing for joy. She had given 
time, health, and much love to the task, and ventured 
now to hope they had not been given in vain. One 
thing only marred her happiness, the sad estrangement 
of the daughter from her mother, and that evening she 
resolved to take advantage of Helen’s tender mood, 
and plead for the poor soul who dared not plead for 
herself. 

As the brothers and sisters said good-night, Helen 
clung to them as if loth to part, saying, with each 
embrace : 

“Keep hoping for me, Bella; kiss me, Harry; bless 
me, Augustine, and all wish for me a happier New Year 
than the last.” 

When they were gone she wandered slowly round 
the room, stood long before the picture with its fading 
garland, sung a little softly to herself, and came at last 
to Christie, saying, like a tired child: 

“T have been good all day; now let me rest.” 

“ One thing has been forgotten, dear,” began Christie, 
fearing to disturb the quietude that seemed to have 
been so dearly bought. 


120 WORK. 


Helen understood her, and looked up with a sane 
sweet face, out of which all resentful bitterness had 
passed. 

“No, Christie, not forgotten, only kept until the last. 
To-day is a good day to forgive, as we would be for- 
given, and I mean to do it before I sleep.” Then hold- 
ing Christie close, she added, with a quiver of emotion 
in her voice: “I have no words warm enough to thank 
you, my good angel, for all you have been to me, but I 
know it will give you a great pleasure to do one thing 
more. Give dear mamma my love, and tell her that 
when I am quiet for the night I want her to come and 
get me to sleep with the old lullaby she used to sing 
when I was a little child.” 

No gift bestowed that day was so precious to Christie 
as the joy of carrying this loving message from daugh- 
ter to mother. How Mrs. Carrol received it need not 
be told. She would have gone at once, but Christie 
begged her to wait till rest and quiet, after the efforts 
of the day, had prepared Helen for an interview which 
might undo all that had been done if too hastily at- 
tempted. 

Hester always waited upon her child at night; so, 
feeling that she might be wanted later, Christie went 
to her own room to rest. Quite sure that Mrs. Carrol 
would come to tell her what had passed, she waited for 
an hour or two, then went to ask of Hester how the 
visit had sped. 

“Her mamma came up long ago, but the dear thing 
was fast asleep, so I wouldn’t let her be disturbed, and 
Mrs. Carrol went away again,” said the old woman, 
rousing from a nap. 


COMPANION. 121 


Grieved at the mother’s disappointment, Christie 
stole in, hoping that Helen might rouse. She did not, 
and Christie was about to leave her, when, as she bent 
to smooth the tumbled coverlet, something dropped 
at her feet. Only a little pearl-handled penknife of 
Harry’s; but her heart stood still with fear, for it was 
open, and, as she took it up, a red stain came off upon 
her hand. ss 

Helen’s face was turned away, and, bending nearer, 
Christie saw how deathly pale it looked in the shadow 
of the darkened room. She listened at her lips; only 
a faint flutter of breath parted them; she lifted up the 
averted head, and on the white throat saw a little 
. wound, from which the blood still flowed. Then, like 
a flash of light, the meaning of the sudden change 
which came over her grew clear, — her brave efforts to 
make the last day happy, her tender good-night part- 
ings, her wish to be at peace with every one, the tragic 
death she had chosen rather than live out the tragic 
life that lay before her. 

Christie’s nerves had been tried to the uttermost; 
the shock of this discovery was too much for her, and, 
in the act of calling for help, she fainted, for the first 
time in her life. 

When she was herself again, the room was full of - 
people ; terror-stricken faces passed before her; broken 
voices whispered, “It is too late,” and, as she saw the 
group about the bed, she wished for unconsciousness 
again. 

Helen lay in her mother’s arms at last, quietly breath- 
ing her life away, for though every thing that love and 
skill could devise had been tried to save her, the little 

6 


E22 | WORK. 


knife in that desperate hand had done its work, and 
this world held no more suffering for her. Marry was 
down upon his knees beside her, trying to stifle his 
passionate grief. Augustine prayed audibly above her, 
and the fervor of his broken words comforted all hearts 
but one. Bella was clinging, panic-stricken, to the 
kind old doctor, who was sobbing like a boy, for he had 
loved and served poor Helen as faithfully as if she had 
been his own. 

“Can nothing save her?” Christie whispered, as the 
prayer ended, and a sound of bitter weeping filled the 
room. 

“ Nothing; she is sane and safe at last, thank God!” 

Christie could not but echo his thanksgiving, for the 
blessed tranquillity of the girl’s countenance was such 
as none but death, the great healer, can bring; and, as 
they looked, her eyes opened, beautifully clear and 
calm before they closed for ever. From face to face 
they passed, as if they looked for some one, and her 
lips moved in vain efforts to speak. 

Christie went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes 
searched the room as if unsatisfied; and, with a longing 
that conquered the mortal weakness of the body, the 
heart sent forth one tender cry: 

“My mother —I want my mother 

There was no need to repeat the piteous call, for, as 
it left her lips, she saw her mother’s face bending over 
her, and felt her mother’s arms gathering her in an 
embrace which held her close even after death had set 
its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which 
passed between those reunited hearts. 

When she was asleep at last, Christie and her mother 


” 


COMPANION. 123 


made her ready for her grave; weeping tender tears as 
they folded her in the soft, white garment she had put 
by tor that sad hour; and on her breast they laid the 
flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift. 
So beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the 
early dawn they called her brothers, that they might 
not lose the memory of the blessed peace that shone 
upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new 
year had happily begun. 

“ Now my work here is done, and I must go,” thought 
Christie, when the waves of life closed over the spot 
where another tired swimmer had gone down, But 

she found that one more task remained for her before 
she left the family which, on her coming, she had 
thought so happy. 

Mrs. Carrol, worn out with the long effort to conceal 
her secret cross, broke down entirely under this last 
blow, and besought Christie to tell Bella all that she 
must know. It was a hard task, but Christie accepted 
it, and, when the time came, found that there was very 
little to be told, for at the death-bed of the elder sister, 
the younger had learned much of the sad truth. Thus 
prepared, she listened to all that was most carefully and 
tenderly confided to her, and, when the heavy tale was 
done, she surprised Christie by the unsuspected strength 
she showed. No tears, no lamentations, for she was 
her mother’s daughter, and inherited the pride that can 
bear heavy burdens, if they are borne unseen. 

“Tell me what I must do, and I will do it,” she said, 
with the quiet despair of one who submits to the inevi- 
table, but will not complain. 

When Christie with difficulty told her that she should 


124 WORK. 


give up her lover, Bella bowed her head, and for a 
moment could not speak, then lifted it as if defying her 
own weakness, and spoke out bravely : 

“Tt shall be done, for it is right. It is very hard for 
me, because I love him; he will not suffer much, for he 
can love again. I should be glad of that, and I’ll try 
to wish it for his sake. He is young, and if, as Harry 
says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much 
the better. What next, Christie ?” 

Amazed and touched at the courage of the creature 
she had fancied a sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed 
by a single blow, Christie took heart, and, instead of 
soothing sympathy, gave her the solace best fitted for 
strong natures, something to do for others. What 
inspired her, Christie never knew; perhaps it was the 
year of self-denying service she had rendered for pity’s 
sake; such devotion is its own reward, and now, in 
herself, she discovered unsuspected powers. 

“Live for your mother and your brothers, Bella; 
they need you sorely, and in time I know you will find 
true consolation in it, although you must relinquish 
much. Sustain your mother, cheer Augustine, watch 
over Harry, and be to them what [elen longed to be.” 

“ And fail to do it, as she failed!” cried Bella, with a 
shudder. 

“Listen, and let me give you this hope, for I sin- 
cerely do believe it. Since I came here, F have read 
many books, thought mnch, and talked often with Dr. 
Shirley about this sad affliction. He thinks you and 
Harry may escape it, if you will. You are like your 
mother in temperament and temper; you have self- 
control, strong wills, good nerves, and cheerful spirits. 


COMPANION. aes 


Poor Harry is willfully spoiling all his chances now; 
but you may save him, and, in the endeavor, save your- 
self.” 

“Oh, Christie, may I hope it? Give me one chance 
of escape, and I will suffer any hardship to keep it. 
Let me see any thing before me but a life and death like 
Helen’s, and I’ll bless you for ever!” cried Bella, wel- 
coming this ray of light as a prisoner welcomes sun- 
shine in his cell. 

Christie trembled at the power of her words, yet, 
honestly believing them, she let them uplift this discon- 
solate soul, trusting that they might be in time fulfilled 
through God’s mercy and the saving grace of sincere 
endeavor. 

Iolding fast to this frail spar, Bella bravely took up 
arms against her sea of troubles, and rode out the 
storm. When her lover came to know his fate, she hid 
her heart, and answered “no,” finding a bitter satisfac- 
tion in the end, for Harry was right, and, when the 
fortune was denied him, young Butler did not mourn 
the woman long. Pride helped Bella to bear it; but it 
needed all her courage to look down the coming years 
so bare of all that makes life sweet to youthful souls, 
so desolate and‘ dark, with duty alone to cheer the 
thorny way, and the haunting shadow of her race lurk- 
ing in the background. 

Submission and self-sacrifice are stern, sad angels, 
but in time one learns to know and love them, for when 
they have chastened, they uplift and bless. Dimly dis- 
cerning this, poor Bella put her hands in theirs, saying, 
“Lead me, teach me; I will follow and obey you.” 

All soon felt that they could not stay in a house so 


126 WORK. 


full of heavy memories, and decided to return to their 
old home. They begged Christie to go with them, 
using every argument and entreaty their affection could 
suggest. But Christie needed rest, longed for freedom, 
and felt that in spite of their regard it would be very 
hard for her to live among them any longer. Her 
healthy nature needed brighter influences, stronger 
comrades, and the memory of Helen weighed so heavily 
upon her heart that she was eager to forget it for a time 
in other scenes and other work. 

So they parted, very sadly, very tenderly, and laden 
with good gifts Christie went on her way weary, but 
well satisfied, for she had earned her rest. 


CHAPTER VI. 
SEAMSTRESS. 


OR some weeks Christie rested and refreshed her- 
self by making her room gay and comfortable 
with the gifts lavished on her by the Carrols, and 
by sharing with others the money which Harry had 
smuggled into her possession after she had steadily 
refused to take one penny more than the sum agreed 
upon when she first went to them. 

She took infinite satisfaction in sending one hundred 
dollars to Uncle Enos, for she had accepted what he 
gave her as a loan, and set her heart on repaying every 
fraction of it. Another hundred she gave to Hepsey, 
who found her out and came to report her trials and 
tribulations. The good soul had ventured South and 
_ tried to buy her mother. But “ole missis” would not 

‘let her go at any price, and the faithful chattel would 
not run away. Sorely disappointed, Hepsey had been 
obliged to submit; but her trip was not a failure, for 
» she liberated several brothers and sent them trium- 
_ phantly to Canada. 
“You must take it, Hepsey, for I could not rest 
. happy if I put it away to lie idle while you can save 
" men and women from torment with it. I’d give it if 


128 WORK. 


it was my last penny, for I can help in no other way ; 
and if I need money, I can always earn it, thank God !” 
said Christie, as Hepsey hesitated to take so much from 
a fellow-worker. 

The thought of that investment lay warm at Chris- 

tie’s heart, and never woke a regret, for well she knew 
that every dollar of it would be blessed, since shares in 
the Underground Railroad pay splendid dividends that 
never fail. 
Another portion of her Parente as she called Harry’s 
gift, was bestowed in wedding presents upon Lucy, 
who at length succeeded in winning the heart of the 
owner of the “ heavenly eyes ” and “ distracting legs ;” 
and, having gained her point, married him with dra- 
matic celerity, and went West to follow the fortunes 
of her lord. : 

The old theatre was to be demolished and the com- 
pany scattered, so a farewell festival was held, and 
Christie went to it, feeling more solitary than ever as 
she bade her old friends a long good-bye. 

The rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she 
prudently put it by for a rainy day, and fell to work 
again when her brief vacation was over. 

Hearing of a chance for a good needle-woman in a 
large and well-conducted mantua-making  establish- 
ment, she secured it as a temporary thing, for she 
wanted to divert her mind from that last sad experi- 
ence by entirely different employment and surround- 
ings. She liked to return at night to her own little 
home, solitary and simple as it was, and felt a great 
repugnance to accept any place where she would be 
mixed up with family affairs again. 


SEAMSTRESS. 129 


So day after day she went to her seat in the work- 
room where a dozen other young women sat sewing 
busily on gay garments, with as much lively gossip to 
beguile the time as Miss Cotton, the forewoman, would 
allow. 

For a while it diverted Christie, as she. had a femi- 
nine love for pretty things, and enjoyed seeing delicate 
silks, costly lace, and all the indescribable fantasies of 
fashion. But as spring came on, the old desire for 
something fresh and free began to haunt her, and she 
had both waking and sleeping dreams of a home in the 
country somewhere, with cows and flowers, clothes 
bleaching on green grass, bob-o’-links making rapturous 
music by the river, and the smell of new-mown hay, all 
lending their charms to the picture she painted for 
herself. 

Most assuredly she would have gone to find these 
things, led by the instincts of a healthful nature, had 
not one slender tie held her till it grew into a bond so 
strong she could not break it. 

Among her companions was one, and one only, who 
attracted her. The others were well-meaning girls, 
but full of the frivolous purposes and pleasures which 
their tastes prompted and their dull life fostered. Dress, 
gossip, and wages were the three topics which absorbed 
them. Christie soon tired of the innumerable changes 
rung upon these themes, and took refuge in her own 
thoughts, soon learning to enjoy them undisturbed by 
the clack of many tongues about her. Her evenings 
‘at home were devoted to books, for she had the true 
New England woman’s desire for education, and read 
or studied for the love of it. Thus she had much to 

Gi I 


130 WORK. 


think of as her needle flew, and was rapidly becoming 
a sort of sewing-machine when life was brightened for 
her by the finding of a friend. 

Among the girls was one quiet, skilful creature, 
whose black dress, peculiar face, and silent ways 
attracted Christie. Her evident desire to be let alone 
amused the new comer at first, and she made no effort 
to know her. But presently she became aware that 
Rachel watched her with covert interest, stealing quick, 
shy glances at her as she sat musing over her work. 
Christie smiled at her when she caught these glances, 
as if to reassure the looker of her good-will. But 
Rachel only colored, kept her eyes fixed on her work, 
an 1 was more reserved than ever. 

This interested Christie, and she fell to studying this 
young woman with some curiosity, for she was different 
from the others. Though evidently younger than she 
looked, Rachel’s face was that of one who had known 
some great sorrow, some deep experience; for there 
were lines on the forehead that contrasted strongly 
with the bright, abundant hair above it; in repose, the 
youthfully red, soft lips had a mournful droop, and the 
eyes were old with that indescribable expression which 
comes to those who count their lives by emotions, not 
by years. 

Strangely haunting eyes to Christie, for they seemed 
to appeal to her with a mute eloquence she could not 
resist. In vain did Rachel answer her with quiet cold- 
ness, nod silently when she wished her a cheery “ good 
morning,” and keep resolutely in her own somewhat 
isolated corner, though invited to share the sunny 
window where the other sat. Her eyes belied her 


SEAMSTRESS. 131 


words, and those fugitive glances betrayed the longing 
of a lonely heart that dared not yield itself to the 
genial companionship so freely offered it. 

Christie was sure of this, and would not be repulsed ; 
for her own heart was very solitary. She missed Helen, 
and longed to fill the empty place. | She wooed this 
shy, cold girl as patiently and as gently as a lover 
might, determined to win her confidence, because all 
the others had failed to doit. Sometimes she left a 
flower in Rachel’s basket, always smiled and nodded as 
she entered, and often stopped to admire the work of 
her tasteful fingers. )It was impossible to resist such 
friendly overtures, and slowly Rachel’s coldness melted ; 
into the beseeching eyes came a look of gratitude, the 
more touching for its wordlessness, and an irrepressible 
smile broke over her face in answer to the cordial ones 
that made the sunshine of her day. 

Emboldened by these demonstrations, Christie 
changed her seat, and quietly established between 
them a daily interchange of something beside needles, 
pins, and spools. Then, as Rachel did not draw back 
offended, she went a step farther, and, one day when 
they chanced to be left alone to finish off a delicate bit 
of work, she spoke out frankly : 

“ Why can’t we be friends? I want one sadly, and 
so do you, unless your looks deceive me. We both 
seem to be alone in the world, to have had trouble, and 
to like one another. I won’t annoy you by any imper- 
tinent curiosity, nor burden you with uninteresting 
confidences ; I only want to feel that you like me a 
little and don’t mind my liking you a great deal. Will 
you be my friend, and let me be yours? ” 


132 WORK. 


A great tear rolled down upon the shining silk in 
Rachel’s hands as she looked into Christie’s earnest 
face, and answered with an almost passionate gratitude 
in her own: 

“You can never need a friend as much as I do, or 
know what a blessed thing it is to find such an one as 
you are.” 

“'Then [ may love you, and not be afraid of offend- 
ing ?” cried Christie, much touched. 

“Yes. But remember JZ didn’t ask it first,” said 
Rachel, half dropping the hand she had held in both 
her own. 

“You proud creature! Ill remember; and when 
we quarrel, I’ll take all the blame upon myself.” 

Then Christie kissed her warmly, whisked away the 
tear, and began to paint the delights in store for them 
in her most enthusiastic way, being much elated with 
her victory ; while Rachel listened with a newly kindled 
light in her lovely eyes, and a smile that showed how 
winsome her face had been before many tears washed 
its bloom away, and much trouble made it old too soon. 

Christie kept her word, — asked no questions, volun- 
teered no confidences, but heartily enjoyed the new 
friendship, and found that it gave to life the zest which 
it had lacked before. Now some one cared for her, 
and, better still, she could make some one happy, and 
in the act of lavishing the affection of her generous nat- 
ure on a creature sadder and more solitary than her- 
self, she found a satisfaction that never lost its charm. 
There was nothing in her possession that she did not 
offer Rachel, from the whole of her heart to the largar 

half of her little room. 


SEAMSTRESS. 133 


“Tm tired of thinking only of myself. It makes me 
selfish and low-spirited; for I’m not a bit interesting. 
I must love somebody, and ‘love them hard,’ as chil- 
dren say; so why can’t you come and stay with me? 
There’s room enough, and we could be so cosy evenings 
with our books and work. I know you need some 
one to look after you, and I love dearly to take care 
of people. Do come,” she would say, with most per- 
suasive hospitality. 

But Rachel always answered steadily: “ Not yet, 
Christie, not yet. I’ve got something to do before I 
can think of doing any thing so beautiful as that. Only 
love me, dear, and some day I’ll show you all my heart, 
and thank you as I ought.” 

So Christie was content to wait, and, meantime, en- 
joyed much; for, with Rachel as a friend, she ceased 
to care for country pleasures, found happiness in the 
work that gave her better food than mere daily bread, 
and never thought of change; for love can make a 
home for itself anywhere. 

A very bright and happy time was this in Christie’s 
life; but, like most happy times, it was very brief. 
Only one summer allowed for the blossoming of the 
friendship that budded so slowly in the spring; then 
the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived 
long underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and 
absence. 

Coming to her work late one morning, she found the 
usually orderly room in confusion. Some of the girls 
were crying; some whispering together, —all looking 
excited and dismayed. Mrs. King sat majestically at 
her table, with an ominous frown upon her face. Miss 


154 WORK. 


Cotton stood beside her, looking unusually sour and 
stern, for the ancient virgin’s temper was not of the 
best. Alone, before them all, with her face hidden in 
her hands, and despair in every line of her drooping 
figure, stood Rachel, —a meek culprit at the stern bar 
of justice, where women try a sister woman. 

“ What’s the matter?” cried Christie, pausing on the 
threshold. 3 


Mrs. Kinc anv Miss CoTrTon. 


SEAMSTRESS. 135 


Rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice 
was a fresh wound, but she did not lift her head; and 
Mrs. King answered, with a nervous emphasis that 
made the bugles of her head-dress rattle dismally : 

“ A very sad thing, Miss Devon, — very sad, indeed; a 
thing which never occurred in my establishment before, 
and never shall again. It appears that Rachel, whom 
we all considered a most respectable and worthy girl, 
has been quite the reverse. I shudder to think what 
the consequences of my taking her without a character 
(a thing I never do, and was only tempted by her su- 
perior taste as a trimmer) might have been if Miss Cot- 
ton, having suspicions, had not made strict inquiry and 
confirmed them.” 

“That was a kind and generous act, and Miss Cotton 
must feel proud of it,” said Christie, with an indignantY 
recollection cf Mr. Fletcher’s “ cautious inquiries ” about 
herself. | 

“It was perfectly right and proper, Miss Devon; and 
I thank her for her care of my interests.” And Mrs. 
King bowed her acknowledgment of the service with 
a perfect castanet accompaniment, whereat Miss Cot- 
ton bridled with malicious complacency. 

“Mrs. King, are you sure of this?” said Christie. 
“Miss Cotton does not like Rachel because her work is 
so much praised. May not her jealousy make her un- 
just, or her zeal for you mislead her?” 

“T thank you for your polite insinuations, miss,” re- 
turned the irate forewoman. “JZ never make mistakes ; 
but you will find that vow have made a very great one 
in choosing Rachel for your bosom friend instead of 
some one who would be acredit to you. Ask the creat- 


136 WORK. 


ure herself if all I’ve said of her isn’t true. She can’t 
deny it.” 

With the same indefinable misgiving which had held 
her aloof, Christie turned to Rachel, lifted up the hid- 
den face with gentle force, and looked into it implor- 
ingly, as she whispered: “Is it true?” 

The woful countenance she saw made any other 
answer needless. Involuntarily her hands fell away, 
and she hid her own face, uttering the one reproach, 
which, tender and tearful though it was, seemed harder 
to be borne than the stern condemnation gone before. 

“ Oh, Rachel, I so loved and trusted you!” 

The grief, affection, and regret that trembled in her 
voice roused Rachel from her state of passive endurance 
and gave her courage to plead for herself. But it was 
Christie whom she addressed, Christie whose pardon 
she implored, Christie’s sorrowful reproach that she 
most keenly felt. 

“ Yes, it 7s true,” she said, looking only at the woman 
who had been the first to befriend and now was the last 
to desert her. “It is true that I once went astray, but 
God knows I have repented ; that for years I’ve tried to 
be an honest girl again, and that but for His help I 
should be a far sadder creature than I am this day. 
Christie, you can never know how bitter hard it is to 
outlive a sin like mine, and struggle up again from such 
a fall. It clings to me; it won’t be shaken off or buried 
- out of sight. No sooner do I find a safe place like this, 
and try to forget the past, than some one reads my 
secret in my face and hunts me down. It seems very 
cruel, very hard, yet it is my punishment, so I try to 
bear it, and begin again. What hurts me now more 


SEAMSTRESS. 137 


than all the rest, what breaks my heart, is that I 
deceived you. I never meant to doit. I did not seek 
you, did I? I tried to be cold and stiff; never asked 
for love, though starving for it, till you came to me, so 
kind, so generous, so dear, — how could I help it? Oh, 
how could I help it then?” 

Christie had watched Rachel while she spoke, and 
spoke to her alone; her heart yearned toward this one 
friend, for she still loved her, and, loving, she believed 
in her. 

“J don’t reproach you, dear: I don’t despise or desert 
you, and though I’m grieved and disappointed, I’ 
stand by you still, because you need me more than 
ever now, and I want to prove that I am a true friend. 
Mrs. King, please forgive and let poor Rachel stay 
here, safe among us.” 

“Miss Devon, I’m surprised at you! By no means; 
it would be the ruin of my establishment; not a girl 
would remain, and the character of my rooms would 
be lost for ever,” replied Mrs. King, goaded on by the 
relentless Cotton. 

“ But where will she go if you send her away? Who 
will employ her if you inform against her? What 
stranger will believe in her if we, who have known her 
so long, fail to befriend her now? Mrs. King, think 
of your own daughters, and be a mother to this poor 
girl for their sake.” 

That last stroke touched the woman’s heart; her 
cold eye softened, her hard mouth relaxed, and pity 
was about to win the day, when prudence, in the shape 
of Miss Cotton, turned the scale, for that spiteful spins- 
ter suddenly cried out, in a burst of righteous wrath: 


138 WORK. 


“If that hussy stays, Z leave this establishment for 
ever!” and followed up the blow by putting on sos 
bonnet with a flourish. 

At this spectacle, self-interest got the better of sym- 
pathy in Mrs. King’s worldly mind. To lose Cotton 
was to lose her right hand, and charity at that price was 
too expensive a luxury to be indulged in; so she 
hardened her heart, composed her features, and said, 
impressively : 

“ Take off your bonnet, Cotton; I have no intention 
of offending you, or any one else, by sucha step. I 
forgive you, Rachel, and I pity you; but I can’t think 
of allowing you to stay. There are proper institutions 
for such as you, and I advise you to go to one and re- 
pent. You were paid Saturday night, so nothing pre- 
vents your leaving at once. Time is money here, and 
we are wasting it. Young ladies, take your seats.” 

All but Christie obeyed, yet no one touched a needle, 
and Mrs. King sat, hurriedly stabbing pins into the fat 
cushion on her breast, as if testing the hardness of her 
heart. 

Rachel’s eye went round the room; saw pity, aver- 
sion, or contempt, on every face, but met no answering 
glance, for even Christie’s eyes were bent thoughtfully 
on “the ground, and Christie’s heart seemed closed 
against her. As she looked her whole manner changed ; 
her tears ceased to fall, her face grew hard, and a reck- 
less mood seemed to take possession of her, as if find- 
ing herself deserted by womankind, she would desert 
her own womanhood. 

“YT might have known it would be so,” she said ab- 
ruptly, with a bitter smile, sadder to see than her most 


SEAMSTRESS. 139 


hopeless tears. “It.’s no use for such as me to try; bet- 
ter go back to the old life, for there are kinder hearts 
among the sinners than among the saints, and no one 
can live without a bit of love. Your Magdalen Asylums 
are penitentiaries, not homes; I won’t go to any of 
them. Your piety isn’t worth much, for though you 
read in your Bible how the Lord treated a poor soul 
like me, yet when I stretch out my hand to you for 
help, not one of all you virtuous, Christian women dare 
take it and keep me from a life that’s worse than hell.” 

As she spoke Rachel flung out her hand with a half- 
defiant gesture, and Christie took it. That touch, full 
of womanly compassion, seemed to exorcise the des- 
perate spirit that possessed the poor girl in her despair, 
for, with a stifled exclamation, she sunk down at Chris- 
tie’s feet, and lay there weeping in all the passionate 
abandonment of love and gratitude, remorse and shame. 
Never had human voice sounded so heavenly sweet to 
her as that which broke the silence of the room, as 
this one friend said, with the earnestness of a true and 
tender heart: 

“ Mrs. King, if you send her away, I must take her 
in; for if she does go back to the old life, the sin of it 
will lie at our door, and God will remember it against 
us in theend. Some one must trust her, help her, love 
her, and so save her, as nothing else will. Perhaps I 
can do this better than you, — at least, I’ll try ; for even 
if I risk the loss of my good name, I could bear that bet- 
ter than the thought that Rachel had lost the work of 
these hard years for want of upholding now. She shall 
come home with me; no one there need know of this 
discovery, and I will take any work to her that you 


140 | WORK. 


will give me, to keep her from want and its tempta- ~ 
tions. Will you do this, and let me sew for less, if I 
can pay you for the kindness in no other way?” 

Poor Mrs. King was “much tumbled up and down 
in her own mind;” she longed to consent, but Cotton’s 
eye was upon her, and Cotton’s departure would be an 
irreparable loss, so she decided to end the matter in the 
most summary manner. Plunging a particularly large 
pin into her cushioned breast, asif it was a relief to 
inflict that mock torture upon herself, she said sharply: 

“Tt is impossible. You can do as you please, Miss 
Devon, but I prefer to wash my hands of the affair at | 
once and entirely.” 

Christie’s eye went from the figure at her feet to the 
hard-featured woman who had been a kind and just 
mistress until now, and she asked, anxiously : 

* Do you mean that you wash your hands of me also, 
if I stand by Rachel?” 

“Tdo. I’m-very sorry, but my young ladies must 
keep respectable company, or leave my service,” was 
the brief reply, for Mrs. King grew grimmer externally 
as the mental rebellion increased internally. 

“ Then I will leave it!” cried Christie, with an indig- 
nant voice and eye. “Come, dear, we’ll go together.” 
And without a look or word for any in the room, she 
raised the prostrate girl, and led her out into the little 
hall. 

There she essayed to comfort her, but before many 
words had passed her lips Rachel looked up, and she 
was silent with surprise, for the face she saw was 
neither despairing nor defiant, but beautifully sweet 
and clear, as the unfallen spirit of the woman shone 


SEAMSTRESS. 141 


through the grateful eyes, and blessed her for her 
loyalty. 

“ Christie, you have done enough for me,” she said. 
“Go back, and keep the good place you need, for such 
are hard to find. I can get on yeah I’m used to this, 
and the pain will soon be over, 

“J°ll not go back!” cried Ginctiel hotly. I7ll do 
slop-work and starve, before Ill stay with such a nar- 
row-minded, cold-hearted woman. Come home with 
me at once, and let us lay our plans together.” 

“No, dear; if I wouldn’t go when you first asked me, 
much less will I go now, for I’ve done you harm 
enough already. I never can thank you for your great 
goodness to me, never tell you what it has been to me. 
We must part now; but some day 1’ll come back and 
show you that I’ve not forgotten how you loved and 
helped and trusted me, when all the others cast me 
oft.” 

Vain were Christie’s arguments and appeals. Rachel 
was immovable, and all her friend could win from her 
was a promise to send word, now and then, how things 
prospered with her. 

“ And, Rachel, I charge you to come to me in any 
strait, no matter what it is, no matter where I am; for 
if any thing could break my heart, it would be to know 
that you had gone back to the old life, because there 
was no one to help and hold you up.” 

“TI never can go back; you have saved me, Christie, 
for you love me, you have faith in me, and that will 
keep me strong and safe when you are gone. Oh, my 
dear, my dear, God bless you for ever and for ever!” 

Then Christie, remembering only that they were two 


142 WORK. 


loving women, alone in a world of sin and sorrow, 
took Rachel in her arms, kissed and cried over her 
with sisterly affection, and watched her prayerfully, 
as she went away to begin her hard task anew, with 
nothing but the touch of innocent lips upon her cheek, 
the baptism of tender tears upon her forehead to keep 
her from despair. 

Still cherishing the hope that Rachel would come 
back to her, Christie neither returned to Mrs. King 
nor sought another place of any sort, but took home 
work from a larger establishment, and sat sewing dili- 


/ gently in her little room, waiting, hoping, longing for 


her friend. But month after month went by, and_no 
word, no sign came to comfort her. She would not 
doubt, yet-she could not help fearing, and in her 
nightly prayer no petition was more fervently made 
than that which asked the Father of both saint and 
sinner to keep poor Rachel safe, and bring her back in 
his good time. 

Never had she been so lonely as now, for Christie 
had a social heart, and, having known the joy of a 
cordial friendship even for a little while, life seemed 
very barren to her when she lost it. No new friend 
took-Rachel’s place, for none came to her, and a feeling 
of loyalty kept her from seeking one. But she suf- 
fered for the want of genial society, for all the ten- 
derness of her nature seemed to have been roused by 
that brief but most sincere affection. | Her hungry 
heart clamored for the happiness that was its right, 
and grew very heavy as she watched friends or lovers 
walking in the summer twilight when she took her 
evening strolls) Often her eyes followed some humble 


SEAMSTRESS. 143 


pair, longing to bless and to be blessed by the divine 
* passion whose magic beautifies the little milliner and 
her lad with the same tender grace as the poet and the 
mistress whom he makes immortal in a song. But 
neither friend nor lover came to Christie, and she said 
to herself, with a sad sort of courage: 

“JT shall be solitary all my life, perhaps; so the sooner 
I make up my mind to it, the easier it will be to 
bear.” 

At Christmas-tide she made a little festival for her- 
self, by giving to each of the household drudges the 
most generous gift she could afford, for no one else 
thought of them, and having known some of the hard- 
ships of servitude herself, she had much sympathy with 
those in like case. 

Then, with the pleasant recollection of two plain 
faces, brightened by gratitude, surprise, and- joy, she 
went out into the busy streets to forget the solitude she 
left behind her. 

Very gay they were with snow and sleigh-bells, holly- 
boughs, and garlands, below, and Christmas sunshine 
in the winter sky above. All faces shone, all voices had 
a cheery ring, and everybody stepped briskly on 
errands of good-will. Up and down went Christie, 
making herself happy in the happiness of others. 
Looking in at the shop-windows, she watched, with 
- interest, the purchases of busy parents, calculating how 
best to fill the little socks hung up at home, with a 
childish faith that never must be disappointed, no mat- 
ter how hard the times might be. She was glad to see 
so many turkeys on their way to garnish hospitable 
tables, and hoped that all the dear home circles might 


144 WORK. 


be found unbroken, though she had place in none. No 
Christmas-tree went by leaving a whiff of piny sweet- 
ness behind, that she did not wish it all success, and 
picture to herself the merry little people dancing in its 
light. And whenever she saw a ragged child eying a 
window full of goodies, smiling even while it shivered, 
she could not resist playing Santa Claus till her purse 
was empty, sending the poor little souls enraptured 
home with oranges and apples in either hand, and 
splendid sweeties in their pockets, for the babies. 

No envy mingled with the melancholy that would 
not be dispelled even by these gentle acts, for her heart 
was very tender that night, and if any one had asked 
what gifts she desired most, she would have answered 
with a look more pathetic than any shivering child had 
given her: 

“T want the sound of a loving voice; the touch of a 
friendly hand.” 

Going home, at last, to the lonely little room where 
no Christmas fire burned, no tree shone, no household 
group awaited her, she climbed the long, dark stairs, 
with drops on her cheeks, warmer than any melted 
snow-flake could have left, and opening her door 
paused on the threshold, smiling with wonder and 
delight, for in her absence some gentle spirit had 
remembered her. <A fire burned cheerily upon the 
hearth, her lamp was lighted, a lovely rose-tree, in full 
bloom, filled the air with its delicate breath, and in its 
shadow lay a note from Rachel. 


“ A merry Christmas and a happy New Year, Chris- 
tie! Long ago you gave me your little rose; I have 


SEAMSTRESS. 145 


watched and tended it for your sake, dear, and now 
when I want to show my love and thankfulness, I give 
it back again as my one treasure. I crept in while you 
were gone, because I feared I might harm you in some 
way if you saw me. I longed to stay and tell you that 
I am safe and well, and busy, with your good face look- 
ing into mine, but I don’t deserve that yet. Only love 
me, trust me, pray for me, and some day you shall 
know what you have done forme. Till then, God bless 
and keep you, dearest friend, your RacueE..” 


Never had sweeter tears fallen than those that 
dropped upon the little tree as Christie took it in her 
arms, and all the rosy clusters leaned toward her as if 
eager to deliver tender messages. Surely her wish was: 
granted now, for friendly hands had been at work for 
her. Warm against her heart lay words as precious as 
if uttered by a loving voice, and nowhere, on that 
happy night, stood a fairer Christmas tree than that 
which bloomed so beautifully from the heart of a Mag- 
dalen who loved much and was forgiven. 


7* Ff 


CHAPTER VII. 


THROUGH THE MIST. 


HE year that followed was the saddest Christie 
had ever known, for she suffered a sort of poverty 
which is more difficult to bear than actual want, since 
money cannot lighten it, and the rarest charity alone 
can minister toit. Her heart was empty and she could 
not fill it; her soul was hungry and she could not feed 
it; life was cold and dark and she could not warm and 
brighten it, for she knew not where to go. 

She tried to help herself by all the means in her 
power, and when effort after effort failed she said: “I 
am not good enough yet to deserve happiness. I think 
too much of human love, too little of divine. When I 
have made God my friend perhaps He will let me find 
and keep one heart to make life happy with. How 
shall I know God? Who will tell me where to find 
Him, and help me to love and lean upon Him as I 
ought?” 

In all sincerity she asked these questions, in all sin- 
cerity she began her search, and with pathetic patience 
waited for an answer. She read many books, some 
wise, some vague, some full of superstition, all unsatis- 
factory to one who wanted a living God. She went to 


THROUGH THE MIST. 147 


many churches, studied many creeds, and watched 
their fruits as well as she could; but still remained 
unsatisfied. Some were cold and narrow, some seemed 
theatrical and superficial, some stern and terrible, none 
simple, sweet, and strong enough for humanity’s many 
needs. There was too much machinery, too many 
walls, laws, and penalties between the Father and His 
children. Too much fear, too little love; too many 
saints and intercessors ; too little faith in the instincts 
of the soul which turns to God as flowers to the sun. 
Too much idle strife about names and creeds} too little 
knowledge of the natural religion which has no name 
but godliness, whose creed is boundless and benignant 
as the sunshine, whose faith is as the tender trust of 
oe children in their mother’s love. 
’ Nowhere~did_Christie-find-this-all-sustaining power, 
/ hnis paternal friend, and comforter, and after months of 
| patient searching she gave up her quest, saying, de- 
, spondently: 
~ «7m afraid I never shall get religion, for all that’s 
offered me seems so poor, so narrow, or so hard that I 
cannot take it for my stay. A God of wrath I cannot 
love; a God that must be propitiated, adorned, and 
adored like an idol I cannot respect; and a God who 
can be blinded to men’s iniquities through the week by 
a little beating of the breast and bowing down on the 
seventh day, I cannot serve. I want a Father to whom 
I can go with all my sins and sorrows, all my hopes and 
joys, as freely and fearlessly as I used to go to my 
human father, sure of help and sympathy and love. 


Shall I ever find Him?” 


Alas, poor Christie! she was going through the sor- 


148 WORK. 


rowful perplexity that comes to so many before they 
learn that religion cannot be given or bought, but must 
grow as trees grow, needing frost and snow, rain and 
wind to strengthen it before it is deep-rooted in the 
soul; that God is in the hearts of all, and they that 
seek shall surely find Him when they need Him most. 

So Christie waited for religion to reveal itself to her, 
and while she waited worked with an almost desperate 
industry, trying to buy a little happiness for herself by 
giving a part of her earnings to those whose needs 
money could supply. She clung to her little room, for 
there she could live her own life undisturbed, and pre- 
ferred to stint herself in other ways rather than give 
up this liberty. Day after day she sat there sewing 
health of mind and body into the long seams or dainty 
stitching that passed through her busy hands, and while 
she sewed she thought sad, bitter, oftentimes rebellious 
thoughts. 

It was the worst life she could have led just then, 
for, deprived of the active, cheerful influences she most 
needed, her mind preyed on itself; slowly and surely, 
preparing her for the dark experience to come. She 
knew that there was fitter work for her somewhere, 
but how to find it was a problem which wiser women 
have often failed to solve. She was no pauper, yet was 
one of those whom poverty sets at odds with the world, 
for fayors burden and dependence makes the bread 
bitter unless love brightens the one and sweetens the 


other. 
rere are many Christies, willing to work, yet unable 


to bear the contact with coarser natures which makes 
labor seem degrading, or to endure the hard struggle 


THROUGH THE MIST. 149 


for the bare necessities of life when life has lost all that 
makes it beautiful. People wonder when such as she 
say they can find little to do; but to those who know 
nothing of the pangs of pride, the sacrifices of feeling, 
the martyrdoms of youth, love, hope, and ambition that. ° 
go on under the faded cloaks of these. poor gentle- 
women, who tell them to go into factories, or scrub in 
kitchens, for there is work enough for all, the most con- 
vincing answer would be, “Try it.” 

Christie kept up bravely till a wearisome low fever 
broke both strength and spirit, and brought the weight 
of debt upon her when least fitted to bear or cast it off: 
For the first time she began to feel that she had nerves 
which would rebel, and a heart that could not long 
endure isolation from its kind without losing the cheer- 
ful courage which hitherto had been her staunchest 
friend. Perfect rest, kind care, and genial society were 
the medicines she needed, but there was no one to min- 
ister to her, and she went blindly on along the road so 
many women tread. 

She left her bed too soon, fearing to ask too much of 
the busy people who had done their best to be neigh- 
borly. She returned to her work when it felt heavy in 
her feeble hands, for debt made idleness seem wicked 
to her conscientious mind. And, worst of all, she fell 
back into the bitter, brooding mood which had become 
habitual to her since she lived alone. While the tired 
hands slowly worked, the weary brain ached and burned 
with heavy thoughts, vain longings, and feverish fancies, 
till things about her sometimes seemed as strange and 
spectral as the phantoms that had haunted her half 
delirious sleep. Inexpressibly wretched were the dreary 


150 WORK. 


days, the restless nights, with only pain and labor for 
companions. The world looked very dark to her, life 
seemed an utter failure, God a delusion, and the long, 
lonely years before her too hard to be endured. 

It is not always want, insanity, or sin that drives 
women to desperate deaths; often it is a dreadful lone- 
liness of heart,'a hunger for_h Li worse 
than starvation, a bitter sense of wrong in being denied 
the tender ties, the pleasant duties, the sweet rewards 
that can make the humblest life happy; a rebellious 
protest against God, who, when they cry for bread, 
seems to offer them a stone. Some of these impatient 
souls throw life away, and learn too late how rich it 
might have been with a stronger faith, a more sub- 
missive spirit. Others are kept, and slowly taught to 
stand and wait, till blest with a jhappiness the sweeter 
for the doubt that went before. 7 

There came a time to Christie when the mist about 
her was so thick she would have stumbled and fallen 
had not the little candle, kept alight by her own hand, 
showed her how far “a good deed shines in a naughty 
world ;” and when God seemed utterly forgetful of her 
He sent a friend to save and comfort her. 

March winds were whistling among the house-tops, 
and the sky was darkening with a rainy twilight as 
Christie folded up her finished work, stretched her 
weary limbs, and made ready for her daily walk. Even 
this was turned to profit, for then she took home her 
work, went in search of more, and did her own small 
marketing. As late hours and unhealthy labor de- 
stroyed appetite, and unpaid debts made each mouthful 
difficult to swallow with Mrs. Flint’s hard eye upon 


s 


eae 


THROUGH THE MIST. Let 


her, she had undertaken to supply her own food, and 
so lessen the obligation that burdened her. An unwise 
retrenchment, for, busied with the tasks that must be 
done, she too often neglected or deferred the meals to 
which no society lent interest, no appetite gave flavor ; 
and when the fuel was withheld the fire began to die 
out spark by spark. 

As she stood before the little mirror, smoothing the 
hair upon her forehead, she watched the face reflected 
there, wondering if it could be the same she used to 
see so full of youth and hope and energy. 

“Yes, I’m growing old; my youth is nearly over, 
and at thirty I shall be a faded, dreary woman, like so 
many I see and pity. It’s hard to come to this after 
trying so long to find my place, and do my duty. I’m 
a failure after all, and might as well have stayed with 
Aunt Betsey or married Joe.” 

“ Miss Devon, to-day is Saturday, and I’m makin’ up 
my bills, so I’ll trouble you for your month’s board, 
and as much on the old account as you can let me 
have.” 

Mrs. Flint spoke, and her sharp voice rasped the 
silence like a file, for she had entered without knocking, 
and her demand was the first intimation of her pres- 
ence. 

Christie turned slowly round, for there was no elas- 
ticity in her motions now; through the melancholy 
anxiety her face always wore of late, there came the 
worried look of one driven almost beyond endurance, 
and her hands began to tremble nervously as she tied 
on her bonnet. Mrs. Flint was a hard woman, and 
dunned her debtors relentlessly ; Christie dreaded the 


152 WORK. 


sight of her, and would have left the house had she 
been free of debt. 

“JT am just going to take these things home and get 
more work. I am sure of being paid, and you shall 
have all I get. But, for Heaven’s sake, give me time.” 

Two days and a night of almost uninterrupted labor 
had given a severe strain to her nerves, and left her in 
a dangerous state. Something in her face arrested 
Mrs. Flint’s attention; she observed that Christie was 
putting on her best cloak and hat, and to her suspicious 
eye the bundle of work looked unduly large. 

It had been a hard day for the poor woman, for the 
cook had gone off in a huff; the chamber girl been 


detected in petty larceny ; two desirable boarders had ° 


disappointed her; and the incapable husband had fallen 
ill, so it was little wonder that her soul was tried, her 
sharp voice sharper, and her sour temper sourer than 
ever. 

“TJ have heard of folks putting on their best things 
and going out, but never coming back again, when 
they owed money. It’s a mean trick, but it’s some- 
times done by them you wouldn’t think it of,” she said, 
with an aggravating sniff of intelligence. 

To be suspected of dishonesty was the last drop in 
Christie’s full cup. She looked at the woman with a 
strong desire to do something violent, for every nerve 
was tingling with irritation and anger. But she con- 
trolled herself, though her face was colorless and her 
hands were more tremulous than before. Unfastening 
her comfortable cloak she replaced it with a shabby 
shawl; took off her neat bonnet and put on a hood, 
unfolded six linen shirts, and shook them out before her 


THROUGH THE MIST. 153 


Jandlady’s eyes; then retied the parcel, and, pausing on 
the threshold of the door, looked back with an expres- 
sion that haunted the woman long afterward, as she 
said, with the quiver of strong excitement in her voice: 

“ Mrs. Flint, I have always dealt honorably by you; 
I always mean to do it, and don’t deserve to be sus- 
pected of dishonesty like that. I leave every thing I 
own behind me, and if I don’t come back, you can sell 
them all and pay yourself, for I feel now as if I never 
wanted to see you or this room again.” 

Then she went rapidly away, supported by her indig- 
nation, for she had done her best to pay her debts; had 
sold the few trinkets she possessed, and several treas- 
ures given by the Carrols, to settle her doctor’s bill, 
and had been half killing herself to satisfy Mrs. Flint’s 
demands. The consciousness that she had been too 
lavish in her generosity when fortune smiled upon her, 
made the present want all the harder to bear. But she 
would neither beg nor borrow, though she knew Harry 
would delight to give, and Uncle Enos lend her money, 
with a lecture on extravagance, gratis. 

“Ill paddle my own canoe as long as I can,” she 
said, sternly ; “and when I must ask help Ill turn to 
strangers for it, 6r scuttle my boat, and go down with- 
out troubling any one.”/ 

When she came to her employer’s door, the servant 
said: “ Missis was out;” then seeing Christie’s disap- 
pointed face, she added, confidentially : 

“If it’s any comfort to know it, I can tell you that 
missis wouldn’t have paid you if she had a been to 
home. There’s been three other women here with 
work, and she’s put ’em all off. She always does, and 

7* 


— 


f 


: 


\S 


154 WORK. 


beats em down into the bargain, which ain’t genteel to 
my thinkin’.” 

“She promised me I should be well paid for these, 
because I undertook to get them done without fail. 
I’ve worked day and night rather than disappoint her, 
and felt sure of my money,” said Christie, despond- 
ently. 

“I’m sorry, but you won’t get it. She told me to 
tell you your prices was too high, and she could find 
folks to work cheaper.” 
~““She did not object to the price when I took the 
work, and I have half-ruined my eyes over the fine 
stitching. See if it isn’t nicely done.” And Christie 
displayed her exquisite needlework with pride. 

The girl admired it, and, having a grievance of her 
own, took satisfaction in berating her mistress. 

“It’sashame! These things are part of a present 
the ladies are going to give the minister; but I don’t 
believe he’ll feel easy in ’em if poor folks is wronged 
to get ’em. Missis won’t pay what they are worth, I 
know ; for, don’t you see, the cheaper the work is done, 
the more money she has to make a spread with her 
share of the present? It’s my opinion you’d better 
hold on to these shirts till she pays for em handsome.” 

“No; I’ll keep my promise, and I hope she will 
keep hers. Tell her I need the money very much, and 
have worked very hard to please her. I’ll come again 
on Monday, if I’m able.” 

Christie’s lips trembled as she spoke, for she was 
feeble still, and the thought of that hard-earned money 
had been her sustaining hope through the weary hours 
spent over that ill-paid work. The girl said “ Good- 


a 


THROUGH THE MIST. 155 


bye,” with a look of mingled pity and respect, for in 
her eyes the seamstress was more of a lady than the 
mistress in this transaction. 

Christie hurried to another place, and asked eagerly 
if the young ladies had any work for her. “Not a 
stitch,” was the reply, and the door closed. She stood 
a moment looking down upon the passers-by wonder- 
ing what answer she would get if she accosted any one ; 
and had any especially benevolent face looked back at 
her she would have been tempted to do it, so heart-sick 
and forlorn did she feel just then. 

She knocked at several other doors, to receive the 
same reply. She even tried a slop-shop, but it was 
full, and her pale face was against her. Her long ill- 
ness had lost her many patrons, and if one steps out 
from the ranks of needle-women it is very hard to press 
in again, so crowded are they, and so desperate the 
need of money. 

One hope remained, and, though the way was long, 
and a foggy drizzle had set in, she minded neither dis- 
tance nor the chilly rain, but hurried away with anxious 
thoughts still dogging her steps. Across a long bridge, 
through muddy roads and up a stately avenue she 
went, pausing, at last, spent and breathless at another 
door. 

A servant with a wedding-favor in his button-hole 
opened to her, and, while he went to deliver her urgent 
message, she peered in wistfully from the dreary world 
without, catching glimpses of home-love and_happiness 
that made her heart ache for very pity of its own lone- 
liness. 

A wedding was evidently afoot, for hall and staircase 


156 _  WORR. 


blazed with light and bloomed with flowers. Smiling 
men and maids ran to and fro; opening doors showed 
tables beautiful with bridal white and silver; savory 
odors filled the air; gay voices echoed above and 
below; and once she caught a brief glance at the 
bonny bride, standing with her father’s arm about her, 
while her mother gave some last, loving touch to her 
array; and a group of young sisters with April faces 
clustered round her. 

The pretty picture vanished all too soon; the man 
returned with a hurried “ No” for answer, and Christie 
went out into the deepening twilight, with a strange 
sense of desperation at her heart./It was not the 
refusal, not the fear of want, nor the reaction of over- 
taxed nerves alone; it was the sharpness of the con- 
trast between that other woman’s fate and her own that 
made her wring her hands together, and cry out, 
bitterly : 

“Oh, it isn’t fair, it isn’t right, that she should have 
so much and I so little! What have I ever done to be 
so desolate and miserable, and never to find any happi- 
ness, however hard I try to do what seems my duty?” 

There was no answer, and she went slowly down the 
long avenue, feeling that there was no cause for hurry 
now, and even night and rain and wind were better 
than her lonely room or Mrs. Flint’s complaints. Afar 
off the city lights shone faintly through the fog, like 
pale lamps seen in dreams; the damp air cooled her 
feverish cheeks; the road was dark and still, and she 
longed to lie down and rest among the sodden leaves. 

When she reached the bridge she saw the draw was 
up, and a spectral ship was slowly passing through. 


THROUGH THE MIST. 157 


With no desire to mingle in the crowd that waited on 
either side, she paused, and, leaning on the railing, let 
her thoughts wander where they would. As she stood 
there the heavy air seemed to clog her breath and 
wrap her in its chilly arms. She felt as if the springs 
of life were running down, and presently would stop; 
for, even when the old question, “What shall I do?” 
came haunting her, she no longer cared even to try to 
answer it, and had no feeling but one of utter weari- 
ness. She tried to shake off the strange mood that 
was stealing over her, but spent body and spent brain 
were not strong enough to obey her will, and, in spite 
of her efforts to control it, the impulse that had seized 
her grew more intense each moment. 

“ Why should I work and suffer any longer for my- 
self alone?” she thought; “why wear out my life 
struggling for the bread I have no heart to eat? I am 
not wise enough to find my place, nor patient enough 
to wait until it comes to me. Better give up trying, 
and leave room for those who have something to live 
tor? 


Many a stronger soul has known a dark hour when 


‘ the importunate wish has risen that it were possible 


and right to lay down the burdens that oppress, the 
perplexities that harass, and hasten the coming of the 
long sleep that needs no lullaby. Such an hour was 
this to Christie, for, as she stood there, that sorrowful 
bewilderment which we call despair came over her, and 
ruled her with a power she could not resist. / 

A flight of steps close by led to a lumber (harf, and, 
scarcely knowing why, she went down there, with a 
vague desire to sit still somewhere, and think her way 


158 WORK. 


out of the mist that seemed to obscure her mind. A 
single tall lamp shone at the farther end of the plat- 
form, and presently she found herself leaning her hot 
forehead against the iron pillar, while she watched with 
curious interest the black water rolling sluggishly 
below. ihe 

She knew it was no place for her, yet no one waited 
for her, no one would care if she staid for ever, and, 
yielding to the perilous fascination that drew her there, 
she lingered with a heavy throbbing in her temples, and 
a troop of wild fancies whirling through her brain. 
Something white swept by below, — only a broken oar 
— but she began to wonder how a human body would 
look floating through the night. It was an awesome 
fancy, but it took possession of her, and, as it grew, her 
eyes dilated, her breath came fast, and her lips fell 
apart, for she seemed to see the phantom she had con- 
jured up, and it wore the likeness of herself 

With an ominous chill creeping through her blood, 
and a growing tumult in her mind, she thought, “I 
must go,” but still stood motionless, leaning over the 
wide gulf, eager to see where that dead thing would 
pass away. So plainly did she see it, so peaceful was 
the white face, so full of rest the folded hands, so 
strangely like, and yet unlike, herself, that she seemed 
to lose her identity, and wondered which was the real 
and which the imaginary Christie. Lower and lower 
she bent; looser and looser grew her hold upon the 
pillar; faster and faster beat the pulses in her temples, 
and the rush of some blind impulse was swiftly coming 
on, when a hand seized and caught her back. 

For an instant every thing grew black before her 


THROUGH THE MIST. 159 


eyes, and the earth seemed to slip away from under- 
neath her feet. ‘Then she was herself again, and found 
that she was sitting on a pile of lumber, with her head 
uncovered, and a woman’s arm about her. 


THE RESCUE. 


“Was I going to drown myself? ” she asked, slowly, 
with a fancy that she had been dreaming frightfully, 
and some one had wakened her. 


160 WORK. 


“You were most gone; but I came in time, thank 
God! O Christie! don’t you know me?” 

Ah! no fear of that; for with one bewildered look, 
one glad ery of recognition, Christie found her friend 
again, and was gathered close to Rachel’s heart. 

“My dear, my dear, what drove you to it? Tell 
me all, and let me help you in your trouble, as you 
helped me in mine,” she said, as she tenderly laid the 
poor, white face upon her breast, and wrapped her 
shawl about the trembling figure clinging to her with 
such passionate delight. 

“TIT have been ill; I worked too hard; I’m not 
myself to-night. I owe money. People disappoint and 
worry me; and I was so worn out, and weak, and 
wicked, I think I meant to take my life.” 

“No, dear; it was not you that meant to do it, 
but the weakness and the trouble that bewildered you. 
Forget it all, and rest a little, safe with me; then we’ll 
talk again.” 

Rachel spoke soothingly, for Christie shivered and 
sighed as if her own thoughts frightened her. Fora 
moment they sat silent, while the mist trailed its white 
shroud above them, as if death had paused to beckon 
a tired child away, but, finding her so gently cradled 
’ on a warm, human heart, had relented and passed on, 
leaving no waif but the broken oar for the river to 
carry toward the sea, 

“ Tell me about yourself, Rachel. Where have you 
been so long? I’ve looked and waited for you ever 
since the second little note you sent me on last Christ- 
mas; but you never came.” 

“T’ve been away, dear heart, hard at work in another 


THROUGH THE MIST. 161 


city, larger and wickeder than this. I tried to get work 
here, that I might be near you; but that cruel Cotton 
always found me out; and I was so afraid I should get 
desperate that I went away where I was not known. 
There it came into my mind to do for others more 
wretched than I what you had done for me. God put 
the thought into my heart, and He helped me in my 
work, for it has prospered wonderfully. All this year 
I have been busy with it, and almost happy; for I felt 
that your love made me strong to do it, and that, in 
time, I might grow good enough to be your friend.” 

“See what I am, Rachel, and never say that any 
more!” 

“TIush, my poor dear, and let me talk. You are not 
able to do any thing, but rest, and listen. I knew how 
many poor souls went wrong when the devil tempted 
them ; and I gave all my strength to saving those who 
were going the way I went. I had no fear, no shame 
to overcome, for I was one of them. They would listen 
to me, for I knew what I spoke; they could believe in 
salvation, for I was saved; they did not feel so outcast 
and forlorn when I told them you had taken me into 
your innocent arms, and loved me like a sister. With 
every one I helped my power increased, and I felt as if 
I had washed away a little of my own great sin. O 
Christie! never think it’s time to die till you are called ; 
for the Lord leaves us till we haye done our fork, and 
never sends more sin and sorrow than we can bear and 
be the better for, if we hold fast by Him.” 

So beautiful and brave she looked, so full of strength 
and yet of meek submission was her voice, that Chris- 
tie’s heart was thrilled; for it was plain that Rachel 

K 


162 WORK. 


had learned how to distil balm from the bitterness of 
life, and, groping in the mire to save lost souls, had 
found her own salvation there. . 

“Show me how to grow pious, strong, and useful, as 
you are,” she said. “Iam all wrong, and feel as if I 
never could get right again, for I haven’t energy 
enough to care what becomes of me.” 

“I know the state, Christie: I’ve been through it all! 
but when Z stood where you stand now, there was no 
hand to pull me back, and I fell into a blacker river 
than this underneath our feet. Thank God, I came in 
time to save you from either death! ” 

“ How did you find me?” asked Christie, when she 
had echoed in her heart the thanksgiving that came 
with such fervor from the other’s lips. 

“JT passed you on the bridge. I did not see your face, 
but you stood leaning there so wearily, and looking 
down into the water, as I used to look, that I wanted to 
speak, but did not; and I went on to comfort a poor 
girl who is dying yonder. Something turned me back, 
however; and when I saw you down here I knew why 
I was sent. You were almost gone, but I kept you; 
and when I had you in my arms I knew you, though 
it nearly broke my heart to find you here. Now, dear, 
come home. 

“ Home! ah, Rachel, I’ve got no home, and for want 
of one I shall be lost! ” 

The lament that broke from her was more pathetic 
than the tears that streamed down, hot and heavy, 
melting from her heart the frost of her despair. Her 
friend let her weep, knowing well the worth of tears, 
and while Christie sobbed herself quiet, Rachel took 
thought for her as tenderly as any mother. 


THROUGH THE MIST. 163 


When she had heard the story of Christie’s troubles, 
she stood up as if inspired with a happy thought, and 
stretching both hands to her friend, said, with an air 
of cheerful assurance most comforting to see: 

“J 7] take care of you; come with me, my poor Chris- 
tie, and I’ll give you a home, very humble, but honest 
and happy.” 

“With you, Rachel?” 

“No, dear, I must go back to my work, and you are 
not fit for that. Neither must you go again to your 
own room, because for you it is haunted, and the worst 
place you could be in. You want change, and I'll give 
you one. It will seem queer at first, but it is a whole- 
some place, and just what you need.” 

“ T’ll do any thing youtell me. I’m past thinking for 
myself to-night, and only want to be taken care of 
till I find strength and courage enough to stand alone,” 
said Christie, rising slowly and looking about her with 
an aspect as helpless and hopeless as if the cloud of 
mist was a wall of iron. 

Rachel put on her bonnet for her and wrapped her 
shawl about her, saying, in a tender voice, that warmed 
the other’s heart : : 

“ Close by lives a dear, good woman who often be- 
friends such as you and I. She will take you in with- 
out a question, and love to do it, for she is the most 
hospitable soul I know. Just tell her you want work, 
that I sent you, and there will be no trouble. Then, 
when you know her a little, confide in her, and you 
will never come to such a pass as this again. Keep up 
your heart, dear; I’ll not leave you till you are safe.” 

So cheerily she spoke, so confident she looked, that 


164 : WORK. 


the lost expression passed from Christie’s face, and 
hand in hand they went away together, - two types of 
_ the sad sisterhood standing on either shore of the dark 
river that Is spanned by a Bridge of Sighs. 

Rachel led her friend toward the city, and, coming 
to the mechanics’ quarter, stopped before the door of 
a small, old house. 

“ Just knock, say ‘Rachel sent me, and you'll find 
yourself at home.” 

“Stay with me, or let me go with you. I can’t lose 
you again, for I need you very much,” pleaded Christie, 
clinging to her friend. 

“ Not so much as that poor girl dying all alone. 
She’s waiting for me, and I must go. But I’ll write 
soon; and remember, Christie, I shall feel as if I had 
only paid a very little of my debt if you go back to the 
sad old life, and lose your faith and hope again. God 
bless and keep you, and when we meet next time let 
me find a happier face than this.” 

Rachel kissed it with her heart on her lips, smiled 
her brave sweet smile, and vanished in the mist. 

Pausing a moment to collect herself, Christie recol- 
lected that she*“had not asked the name of the new 
friend whose help she was about to ask. A little sign 
on the door caught her eye, and, bending down, she 
managed to read by the dim light of the street lamp 
these words: 


“OC, Witxins, Clear-Starcher. 
“Laces done up in the best style.” 


Too tired to care whether a laundress or a lady took 
her in, she knocked timidly, and, while she waited for 


THROUGH THE MIST. 165 


an answer to her summons, stood listening to the noises 
within. 

A swashing sound as of water was audible, likewise a 
scuffling as of flying feet; some one clapped hands, and 
a voice said, warningly, “Into your beds this instant 
minute or I’ll come to you! Andrew Jackson, give 
Gusty a boost; Ann Lizy, don’t you tech Wash’s feet 
to tickle ’em. Set pretty in the tub, Victory, dear, 
while ma sees who’s rappin’.” 


~ Sa | 


“©C, WiLkins, CLEAR STARCHER.” 


Then heavy footsteps approached, the door opened 
wide, and a large woman appeared, with fuzzy red 
hair, no front teeth, and a plump, clean face, brightly 
illuminated by the lamp she carried. 

“Tf you please, Rachel sent me. She thought you 
might be able” — 

Christie got no further, for C. Wilkins put out a 
strong bare arm, still damp, and gently drew her in, 


166 WORK. 


saying, with the same motherly tone as when address- 
ing her children, “ Come right in, dear, and don’t mind 
the clutter things isin. I’m givin’ the children their 
Sat’day scrubbin’, and they will slop and kite ’round, 
no matter ef I do spank ’em.” 

Talking all the way in such an easy, comfortable 
voice that Christie felt as if she must have heard it 
before, Mrs. Wilkins led her unexpected guest into a 
small kitchen, smelling suggestively of soap-suds and 
warm flat-irons. In the middle of this apartment was 
a large tub; in the tub a chubby child sat, sucking a 
sponge and staring calmly at the new-comer with a 
pair of big blue eyes, while little drops shone in the 
yellow curls and on the rosy shoulders. 

“ How pretty!” cried Christie, seeing nothing else 
and stopping short to admire this innocent little Venus 
rising from the sea. 

“So she is! Ma’s darlin’ lamb! and ketchin’ her 
death a cold this blessed minnit. Set right down, my 
dear, and tuck your wet feet into the oven. I[’ll have 
a dish o’ tea for you in less’n no time; and while it’s 
drawin’ I’ll clap Victory Adelaide into her bed.” 

Christie sank into a shabby but most hospitable old 
chair, dropped her bonnet on the floor, put her feet in 
the oven, and, leaning back, watched Mrs. Wilkins 
wipe the baby as if she had come for that especial pur- 
pose. As Rachel predicted, she found herself at home 
at once, and presently was startled to hear a laugh 
from her own lips when several children in red and 
yellow flannel night-gowns darted like meteors across 
the open doorway of an adjoining room, with whoops 
and howls, bursts of laughter, and antics of all sorts. 


THROUGH THE MIST. 167 


How pleasant it was; that plain room, with no orna- 
ments but the happy faces, no elegance, but cleanliness, 
no wealth, but hospitality and lots of love. This lat- 
ter blessing gave the place its charm, for, though Mrs. 
Wilkins threatened to take her infants’ noses off if they 
got out of bed again, or “put ’em in the kettle and 
bile ’em ” they evidently knew no fear, but gambolled 
all the nearer to her for the threat; and she beamed 
upon them with such maternal tenderness and pride 
that her homely face grew beautiful in Christie’s eyes. 

When the baby was bundled up in a blanket and 
about to be set down before the stove to simmer a 
trifle before being put to bed, Christie held out her 
arms, saying with an irresistible longing in her eyes 
and voice: aa 

“ Let me hold her! I love babies dearly, and it seems 
as if it would do me more good than quarts of tea to 
cuddle her, if she ’ll let me.” — 

“ There now, that’s real sensible ; and mother’s bird ll 
set along with you as good as a kitten. Toast her 
tootsies wal, for she’s croupy, and I have to be extra 
choice of her.” 

“How good it feels! ” sighed Christie, half devouring 
the warm and rosy little bunch in her lap, while baby 
lay back luxuriously, spreading her pink toes to the 
pleasant warmth and smiling sleepily up in the hungry 
face that hung over her. 

Mrs. Wilkins’s quick eyes saw it all, and she said to 
herself, in the closet, as she cut bread and rattled down 
& cup and saucer: 

“That’s what she wants, poor creeter; I’ll let her 
have a right nice time, and warm and feed and chirk 


168 , ; WORK. 


. “her up, and then I’1l see what’s to be done for her. She 


din’t one of the common sort, and goodness only knows 


what Rachel sent her here for. She’s poor and sick, 


but.she ain’t bad. I can tell that by her face, and she’s 
the sort [like to help. It’s a mercy I ain’t eat my sup- 
per, so she can have that bit of meat and the pie.” / 

Putting a tray on the little table, the good soul set 
forth all she had to give, and offered it with such hos- 
pitable warmth that Christie ate and drank with un- 
accustomed appetite, finishing off deliciously with a 
kiss from baby before she was borne away by her 
mother to the back bedroom, where peace soon 
reigned. 

“ Now let me tell you who I am, and how I came to 
you in such an unceremonious way,” began Christie, 
when her hostess returned and found her warmed, 
refreshed, and composed by a woman’s three best com- 


forters, — kind words, a baby, and a cup of tea, 

“~“*Pears to me, dear, I wouldn't rile myself up by 
telling any werryments to-night, but git right warm 
inter bed, and have a good long sleep,” said Mrs. Wil- 
kins, without a ray of curiosity in her wholesome red 
face. 

“But you don’t know any thing about me, and I may 
be the worst woman in the world,” cried Christie, 
anxious to prove herself worthy of such confidence. 

“T know that you want takin’ care of, child, or 
Rachel wouldn’t a sent you. Ef I can help any one, I 
don’t want no introduction; and ef you be the wust- 
woman in the world (which you ain’t), I wouldn’t shet 
my door on you, for then you’d need a lift more ’n you 
do now.” 


THROUGH THE MIST. 169 


Christie could only put out her hand, and mutely 
thank her new friend with full eyes. 

“Youre fairly tuckered out, you poor soul, so you 
jest come right up chamber and let me tuck you 
up, else youll be down sick. It ain’t a mite of incon- 
venience; the room is kep for company, and it’s all 
ready, even to a clean night-cap. I’m goin’ to clap 
this warm flat to your feet when you’re fixed; it’s 
amazin’ comfortin’ and keeps your head cool.” 

Up they went to a tidy little chamber, and Christie 
found herself laid down to rest none too soon, for she 
was quite worn out. Sleep began to steal over her the 
moment her head touched the pillow, in spite of the 
much beruffled cap which Mrs. Wilkins put on with 
visible pride in its stiffly crimped borders. She was 
dimly conscious of a kind hand tucking her up, a com- 
fortable voice purring over her, and, best of all, a 
motherly good-night kiss, then the weary world faded 
quite away and she was at rest. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 


LisHA WILKINS. 


HEN Christie opened the eyes that had closed 

so wearily, afternoon sunshine streamed across 

the room, and seemed the herald of happier days. 

Refreshed by sleep, and comforted by grateful recollec- 

tions of her kindly welcome, she lay tranquilly enjoy- 

ing the friendly atmosphere about her, with so strong a 

feeling that a skilful hand had taken the rudder, that 

she felt very little anxiety or curiosity about the haven 

which was to receive her boat after this narrow escape 
from shipwreck. a OY, 


OR, 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. a iyi k 


Her eye wandered to and fro, and brightened as it 
went; for though a poor, plain room it was as neat as 
hands could make it, and so glorified with sunshine 
that she thought it a lovely place, in spite of the yellow 
paper with green cabbage roses on it, the gorgeous 
plaster statuary on the mantel-piece, and the fragrance 
of dough-nuts which pervaded the air. Every thing 
suggested home life, humble but happy, and Christie’s 
solitary heart warmed at the sights and sounds about 
her. 

A half open closet-door gave her glimpses of little 
frocks and jackets, stubby little shoes, and go-to-meet- 
ing hats allin arow. From below came up the sound 
of childish voices chattering, childish feet trotting to 
and fro, and childish laughter sounding sweetly through 
the Sabbath stillness of the place. From a room near 
by, came the soothing creak of a rocking-chair, the 
rustle of a newspaper, and now and then a scrap of 
conversation common-place enough, but pleasant to 
hear, because so full of domestic love and confidence; 
and, as she listened, Christie pictured Mrs. Wilkins and 
her husband taking their rest together after the week’s 
hard work was done. 

“J wish I could stay here; it’s so comfortable and 
home-like. I wonder if they wouldn’t let me have this 
room, and help me to find some better work than sew- 
ing? I'll get up and ask them,” thought Christie, 
feeling an irresistible desire to stay, and strong repug- 
nance to returning to the room she had left, for, as 
Rachel truly said, it was haunted for her. 

When she opened the door to go down, Mrs. Wilkins 


172 WORK. 


bounced out of her rocking-chair and hurried to meet 
her with a smiling face, saying all in one breath: 

“Good mornin’, dear! Rested well, I hope? I’m 
proper glad to hear it. Now come right down and 
have your dinner. I kep it hot, for I couldn’t bear to 
wake you up, you was sleepin’ so beautiful.” 

“T was so worn out I slept like a baby, and feel like 
a new creature. It was so kind of you to take me in, 
and I’m so grateful I don’t know how to show it,” said 
Christie, warmly, as her hostess ponderously descended 
the complaining stairs and ushered her into the tidy 
kitchen from which tubs and flat-irons were banished 
one day in the week. 

“Lawful sakes, the’ ain’t nothing to be grateful for, 
child, and you’re heartily welcome to the little I done. 
We are country folks in our ways, though we be livin’ 
in the city, and we have areg’lar country dinner Sun- 
days. Hope you'll relish it; my vittles is clean ef 
they ain’t rich.” 

As she spoke, Mrs. Wilkins dished up baked beans, 
Indian-pudding, and brown bread enough for half a 
dozen. Christie was hungry now, and ate with an 
appetite that delighted the good lady who vibrated 
between her guest and her children, shut up in the 
“ settin’-room.” 

“Now please let me tell you all about myself, for I 
am afraid you think me something better than I am, 
If I ask help from you, it is right that you should 
know whom you are helping,” said Christie, when the 
table was cleared and her hostess came and sat down 
beside her. 

“Yes, my dear, free your mind, and then we’ll fix 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 178 


things up right smart. Nothin’ I like better, and Lisha 
says I have considerable of a knack that way,” replied 
Mrs. Wilkins, with a smile, a nod, and an air of interest 
most reassuring. 

So Christie told her story, won to entire confidence 
by the sympathetic face opposite, and the motherly pats 
so gently given by the big, rough hand that often met 
her own. When all was told, Christie said very ear- 
nestly : 

“JT am ready to go to work to-morrow, and will do 
any thing I can find, but I showld love to stay here a 
little while, if I could; I do so dread to be alone. Is 
it possible? I mean to pay my board of course, and 
help you besides if you’ll let me.” 

Mrs. Wilkins glowed with pleasure at this compli- 
ment, and leaning toward Christie, looked into her face 
a moment in silence, as if to test the sincerity of the 
wish. In that moment Christie saw what steady, saga- 
cious eyes the woman had; so clear, so honest that 
she looked through them into the great, warm heart 
below, and looking forgot the fuzzy, red hair, the pau- 
city of teeth, the faded gown, and felt only the attrac- 
tion of a nature genuine and genial as the sunshine 
dancing on the kitchen floor. 

Beautiful souls often get put into plain bodies, but 
they cannot be hidden, and have a power all their own, 
the greater for the unconsciousness or the humility 
which gives it grace. Christie saw and felt this then, 
and when the homely woman spoke, listened to her 
with implicit confidence. 

“My dear, I’d no more send you away now than [ 
would my Adelaide, for you need looking after for a 


174 WORK. 


spell, most as much as she doos. You’ve been thinkin’ 
and broodin’ too much, and sewin’ yourself to death. 
Well stop all that, and keep you so busy there won’t 
be no time for the hypo. You’re one of them that 
can’t live alone without starvin’ somehow, so I’m jest 
goin’ to turn you in among them children to paster, so 
to speak. That’s wholesome and fillin’ for you, and 
goodness knows it will be a puffect charity to me, for 
I’m goin’ to be dreadful drove with gettin’ up curtins 
and all manner of things, as spring comes on. So it 
ain't no favor on my part, and you can take out your 
board in tendin’ baby and putterin’ over them little 
tykes.” 

“T should like it so much! But I forgot my debt to 
Mrs. Flint; perhaps she won’t let me go,” said Christie, 
with an anxious cloud coming over her brightening 
face. 

“ Merciful, suz! don’t you be werried about her. Ill 
see to her, and ef she acts ugly Lisha’ll fetch her 
round; men can always settle such things better ’n we 
can, and he’s a dreadful smart man Lisha is. We’ll 
go to-morrer and get your belongins, and then settle 
right down for a spell; and by-an’-by when you git a 
trifle more chipper we ’1] find a nice place in the country 
somers. That’s what you want; nothin’ like green 
grass and woodsy smells to right folks up. When I 
was a gal, ef I got low in my mind, or riled in my 
temper, I jest went out and grubbed in the gardin, or 
made hay, or walked a good piece, and it fetched me 
round beautiful. Never failed; so I come to see that 
good fresh dirt is fust rate physic for folk’s spirits as 
it is for wounds, as they tell on.” 


“ 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 175 


«That sounds sensible and pleasant, and I like it. 
Oh, it is so beautiful to feel that somebody cares for 
you a little bit, and you ain’t one too many in the 
world,” sighed Christie. 

“ Don’t you never feel that agin, my dear. What’s 
the Lord for ef He ain’t to hold on to in times of 
trouble. Faith ain’t wuth much ef it’s only lively in 
fair weather; you’ve got to believe hearty and stan’ 
by the Lord through thick and thin, and He’ll stan’ by 
you as no one else begins to. I remember of havin’ 
this bore in upon me by somethin’ that happened to a 
man I knew. He got blowed up in a powder-mill, and 
when folks asked him what he thought when the bust 
come, he said, real sober and impressive: ‘ Wal, it come 
through me, like a flash, that I’d served the Lord as 
faithful as I knew how for a number a years, and I 
guessed He’d fetch me through somehow, and He did.’ 
Sure enough the man warn’t killed; I’m bound to 
confess he was shook dreadful, but his faith warn’t.” 

Christie could not help smiling at the story, but she 
liked it, and sincerely wished she could imitate the 
hero of it in his piety, not his powder. She was about 
to say so when the sound of approaching steps an- 
nounced the advent of her host. She had been rather 
impressed with the “smartness” of Lisha by his wife’s 
praises, but when a small, sallow, sickly looking man 
came in she changed her mind; for not even an im- 
mensely stiff collar, nor a pair of boots that seemed 
composed entirely of what the boys call “ creak leather,” 
could inspire her with confidence. 

Without a particle of expression in his yellow face, 
Mr. Wilkins nodded to the stranger over the picket 


176 WORK. 


fence of his collar, lighted his pipe, and clumped away 
to enjoy his afternoon promenade without compromis- 
ing himself by a single word. 

His wife looked after him with an admiring gaze as 
she said : 

“Them boots is as good as an advertisement, for he 
made every stitch on ’em himself;” then she added, 
laughing like a girl: “ It’s redick’lus my bein’ so proud 
of Lisha, but ef a woman ain’t a right to think wal of 
her own husband, I should like to know who has!” 

Christie was afraid that Mrs. Wilkins had seen her 
disappointment in her face, and tried, with wifely zeal, 
to defend her lord from even a disparaging thought. 
Wishing to atone for this transgression she was about 
to sing the praises of the wooden-faced Elisha, but was 
spared any polite fibs by the appearance of a small girl 
who delivered an urgent message to the effect, that 
“ Mis Plumly was down sick and wanted Mis Wilkins 
to run over and set a spell.” 

As the good lady hesitated with an involuntary glance 
at her guest, Christie said quickly : 

“Don’t mind me; IJ’ll take care of the house for you 
if you want to go. You may be sure I won’t run off 
with the children or steal the spoons.” 

“JT ain’t a mite afraid of anybody wantin’ to steal 
them little toads; and as for spoons, I ain’t got a silver 
one to bless myself with,” laughed Mrs. Wilkins. “I 
guess I will go, then, ef you don’t mind, as it’s only 
acrost the street. Like’s not settin’ quiet will be better 
for you’n talkin’, for I’m a dreadful hand to gab when 
I git started. Tell Mis Plumly I’m a comin’.” 

Then, as the child ran off, the stout lady began to 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. LTT 


rummage in her closet, saying, as she rattled and 
slammed? 

“J°ll jest take her a drawin’ of tea and a couple of 
nut-cakes: mebby she’ll relish ’em, for I shouldn’t 
wonder ef she hadn’t had a mouthful this blessed day. 
She’s dreadful slack at the best of times, but no one 
can much wonder, seein’ she’s got nine children, and 
is jest up from a rheumatic fever. I’m sure I never 
grudge a meal of vittles or a hand’s turn to such 
as she is, though she does beat all for dependin’ on 
her neighbors. I’m a thousand times obleeged. You 
needn’t werry about the children, only don’t let ’em 
git lost, or burnt, or pitch out a winder; and when 
it’s done give ’em the patty-cake that’s bakin’ for 
’em.” 

With which maternal orders Mrs. Wilkins assumed 
a sky-blue bonnet, and went beaming away with sev- 
eral dishes genteelly hidden under her purple shawl. 

Being irresistibly attracted toward the children Chris- 
tie opened the door and took a survey of her responsi- 
bilities. | 

Six lively infants were congregated in the “settin’- 
room,” and chaos seemed to have come again, for every 
sort of destructive amusement was in full operation. 
George Washington, the eldest blossom, was shearing 
a resigned kitten; Gusty and Ann Eliza were concoct- 
ing mud pies in the ashes; Adelaide Victoria was 
studying the structure of lamp-wicks, while Daniel 
Webster and Andrew Jackson were dragging one 
another in a clothes-basket, to the great detriment of 
the old carpet and still older chariot. 

Thinking that some employment more suited to the 


8* L 


178 WORK. 


day might be introduced, Christie soon made friends 
with these young persons, and, having rescued the 
kitten, banished the basket, lured the elder girls from 
their mud-piety, and quenched the curiosity of the 
Pickwickian Adelaide, she proposed teaching them 
some little hymns. 

The idea was graciously received, and the class deco- 
rously seated ina row. But before a single verse was 
given out, Gusty, being of a house-wifely turn of mind, 
suggested that the patty-cake might burn. Instant 
alarm pervaded the party, and a precipitate rush was 
made for the cooking-stove, where Christie proved by 
ocular demonstration that the cake showed no signs of 
baking, much less of burning. The family pronounced 
themselves satisfied, after each member had poked a 
grimy little finger into the doughy delicacy, whereon 
one large raisin reposed in proud pre-eminence over 
the vulgar herd of caraways. 

Order being with difficulty restored, Christie taught 
her flock an appropriate hymn, and was flattering her- 
self that their youthful minds were receiving a deyo- 
tional bent, when they volunteered a song, and incited 
thereunto by the irreverent Wash, burst forth with a 
gem from Mother Goose, closing with a smart skirmish 
of arms and legs that set all law and order at defiance. 

Hoping to quell the insurrection Christie invited the 
breathless rioters to calm themselves by looking at the 
pictures in the big Bible. But, unfortunately, her expla- 
nations were so vivid that her audience were fired with 
a desire to enact some of the scenes portrayed, and no 
persuasions could keep them from playing Ark on the 
spot. The clothes-basket was elevated upon two 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 179 


chairs, and into it marched the birds of the air and the 
beasts of the field, to judge by the noise, and all set 
sail, with Washington at the helm, Jackson and Web- 
ster plying the clothes and pudding-sticks for oars, while 
the young ladies rescued their dolls from the flood, and 
waved their hands to imaginary friends who were not 
unmindful of the courtesies of life even in the act of 
drowning. 


SS 
S 
< 


as 


Wi 


Mrs. WiLxkins’ Six Livery INFANTS. 


Finding her authority defied Christie left the rebels 
to their own devices, and sitting in a corner, began to 


180 WORK. 


think about her own affairs. But before she had time 
to get anxious or perplexed the children diverted her 
mind, as if the little flibberty-gibbets knew that their 
pranks and perils were far wholesomer for her just 
then than brooding. 

The much-enduring kitten being sent forth as a dove 
upon the waters failed to return with the olive-branch 3 
of which peaceful emblem there was soon great need, 
for mutiny broke out, and spread with disastrous ra- 
pidity. 

Ann Eliza slapped Gusty because she had the biggest 
bandbox ; Andrew threatened to “ chuck ” Daniel over- 
board if he continued to trample on the fraternal toes, 
and in the midst of the fray, by some unguarded 
motion, Washington capsized the ship and _ precipitated 
the patriarchal family into the bosom of the deep. 

Christie flew to the rescue, and, hydropathically 
treated, the anguish of bumps and bruises was soon 
assuaged. Then appeared the appropriate moment for 
a story, and gathering the dilapidated party about her 
she soon enraptured them by a recital of the immortal 
history of “Frank and the little dog Trusty.” Charmed 
with her success she was about to tell another moral 
tale, but no sooner had she announced the name, “ The 
Three Cakes,” when, like an electric flash a sudden 
recollection seized the young Wilkinses, and with one 
voice they demanded their lawful prize, sure that now 
it must be done. 

Christie had forgotten all about it, and was harassed 
with secret misgivings as she headed the investigating 
committee. With skipping of feet and clapping of 
hands the eager tribe surrounded the stove, and with 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 181 


fear and trembling Christie drew forth a melancholy 
cinder, where, like Casabianca, the lofty raisin still 
remained, blackened, but undaunted, at its post. 

Then were six little vials of wrath poured out upon 
her devoted head, and sounds of lamentation filled the 
air, for the irate Wilkinses refused to be comforted till 
the rash vow to present each member of the outraged 
family with a private cake produced a lull, during 
which the younger ones were decoyed into the back 
yard, and the three elders solaced themselves with 
mischief. 

Mounted on mettlesome broomsticks Andrew and 
Daniel were riding merrily away to the Banbury Cross, 
of blessed memory, and little Vic was erecting a pagoda 
of oyster-shells, under Christie’s superintendence, when 
a shrill scream from within sent horsemen and archi- 
tects flying to the rescue. 

Gusty’s pinafore was in a blaze; Ann Eliza was 
dancing frantically about her sister as if bent on making 
a suttee of herself, while George Washington hung out 
of window, roaring, “Fire!” “water!” “engine!” 
“pa!” with a presence of mind worthy of his sex. 

A speedy application of the hearth-rug quenched the 
conflagration, and when a minute burn had been envel- 
oped in cotton-wool, like a gem, a coroner sat upon the 
pinafore and investigated the case. 

It appeared that the ladies were “ only playing paper 
dolls,” when Wash, sighing for the enlightenment of, his 
race, proposed to make a bonfire, and did so with an 
old book; but Gusty, with a firm belief in future pun- 
ishment, tried to save it, and fell a victim to her prin- 
ciples, as the virtuous are very apt to do. 


182 WORK. 


The book was brought into court, and proved to be 
an ancient volume of ballads, cut, torn, and half con- 
sumed. Several peculiarly developed paper dolls, 
branded here and there with large letters, like galley- 
slaves, were then produced by the accused, and the 
judge could with difficulty preserve her gravity when 
she found “John Gilpin” converted into a painted 
petticoat, “The Bay of Biscay, O,” situated in the 
crown of a hat, and “ Chevy Chase” issuing from the 
mouth of a triangular gentleman, who, like Dickens’s 
cherub, probably sung it by ear, having no lungs to 
speak of. 

It was further apparent from the agricultural appear- 
ance of the room that beans had been sowed broadcast 
by means of the apple-corer, which Wash had con- 
verted into a pop-gun with a mechanical ingenuity 
worthy of more general appreciation. He felt this 
deeply, and when Christie reproved him for leading his 
sisters astray, he resented the liberty she took, and 
retired in high dudgeon to the cellar, where he appeared 
to set up a menagerie, — for bears, lions, and unknown 
animals, endowed with great vocal powers, were heard 
to solicit patronage from below. 

Somewhat exhausted by her labors, Christie rested, 
after clearing up the room, while the children found a 
solace for all afflictions in the consumption of relays of 
bread and molasses, which infantile restorative occurred 
like an inspiration to the mind of their guardjan. 

Peace reigned for fifteen minutes; then came a loud 
crash from the cellar, followed by a violent splashing, 
and wild cries of, “ Oh, oh, oh, I’ve fell into the pork 
barrel! I’m drownin’, 1’m drownin’ !” 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 183 


Down rushed Christie, and the sticky innocents ran 
screaming after, to behold their pickled brother fished 
up from the briny deep. A spectacle well calculated 
to impress upon their infant minds the awful conse- 
quences of straying from the paths of virtue. 

At this crisis Mrs. Wilkins providentially appeared, 
breathless, but brisk and beaming, and in no wise dis- 
mayed by the plight of her luckless son, for a ten years’ 
acquaintance with Wash’s dauntless nature had inured 
his mother to “didoes” that would have appalled most 
women. 

“Go right up chamber, and change every rag on you, 
and don’t come down agin till I rap on the ceilin’; you 
dreadful boy, disgracin’ your family by sech actions. 
I’m sorry I was kep’ so long, but Mis Plumly got tellin’ 
her werryments, and ’peared to take so much comfort 
in it I couldn’t bear to stop her. Then I jest run 
round to your place and told that woman that you was 
safe and well, along’r friends, and would call in to- 
morrer to get your things. She’d ben so scart by 
your not comin’ home that she was as mild as milk, so 
you won’t have no trouble with her, I expect.” 

“Thank you very much! How kind you are, and 
how tired you must be! Sit down and let me take 
your things,” cried Christie, more relieved than she 
could express. 

“TLor’, no, I’m fond of walkin’, but bein’ ruther hefty 
it takes my breath away some to hurry. I’m afraid 
these children have tuckered you out though. They 
are proper good gen’lly, but when they do take to 
trainen they ’re a sight of care,” said Mrs. Wilkins, as 
she surveyed her imposing bonnet with calm satisfac- 
tion. 


184 WORK. 


“T’ve enjoyed it very much, and it’s done me good, 
for I haven’t laughed so much for six months as I have 
this afternoon,” answered Christie, and it was quite 
true, for she had been too busy to think of herself or 
her woes. 

“ Wal, I thought likely it would chirk you up some, 
or I shouldn’t have went,” and Mrs. Wilkins put away 
a contented smile with her cherished bonnet, for Chris- 
tie’s face had grown so much brighter since she saw it 
last, that the good woman felt sure her treatment was 
the right one. 

At supper Lisha reappeared, and while his wife and 
children talked incessantly, he ate four slices of bread 
and butter, three pieces of pie, five dough-nuts, and 
drank a small ocean of tea out of his saucer. Then, 
evidently feeling that he had done his duty like a man, 
he gave Christie another nod, and disappeared again 
without a word. 

When she had done up her dishes Mrs. Wilkins 
brought out a few books and papers, and said to Chris- 
tie, who sat apart by the window, with the old shadow 
creeping over her face: 

“Now don’t feel lonesome, my dear, but jest lop 
right down on the soffy and have a sociable kind of a 
time. Lisha’s gone down street for the evenin’. Ill 
keep the children as quiet as one woman can, and you 
may read or rest, or talk, jest as you’re a mind.” 

“Thank you; I’ll sit here and rock little Vie to 
sleep for you. I don’t care to read, but I’d like to 
have you talk to me, for it seems as if I’?d known you 
a long time and it does me good,” said Christie, as she 
settled herself and baby on the old settee which had 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 185 


served as a cradle for six young Wilkinses, and now 
received the honorable name of sofa in its old age. 

Mrs. Wilkins looked gratified, as she settled her 
brood round the table with a pile of pictorial papers to 
amuse them. Then having laid herself out to be 
agreeable, she sat thoughtfully rubbing the bridge of 
her nose, at a loss how to begin. Presently Christie 
helped her by an involuntary sigh. 

“ What’s the matter, dear? Is there any thing I can 
do to make you comfortable?” asked the kind soul, 
alert at once, and ready to offer sympathy. 

“Tm very cosy, thank you, and I don’t know why I 
sighed. It’s a way I’ve got into when I think of my 
worries,” explained Christie, in haste. 

“ Wal, dear, I wouldn’t ef I was you. Don’t keep 
turnin’ your troubles over. Git atop of ’em somehow, 
and stay there ef you can,” said Mrs. Wilkins, very 
earnestly. 

“But that’s just what I can’t do. I’ve lost all my 
spirits and courage, and got into a dismal state of mind. 
You seem to be very cheerful, and yet you must have 
a good deal to try you sometimes. I wish you’d tell 
me how you do it;” and Christie looked wistfully into 
that other face, so plain, yet so placid, wondering to 
see how little poverty, hard work, and many cares had 
soured or saddened it. 

“Really I don’t know, unless it’s jest doin’ whatever 
comes along, and doin’ of it hearty, sure that things 
is all right, though very often I don’t see it at fust.” 

“Do you see it at last?” 

“ Gen’lly I do; and if I don’t I take it on trust, same 
as children do what older folks tell °em; and byme-by 


186 WORK. 


when I’m grown up in spiritual things Ill understan’ 
as the dears do, when they git to be men and women.” 

That suited Christie, and she thought hopefully 

“within herself: 
“This woman has got the sort of religion I want, if 
\it makes her what she is. Some day I’ll get her to tell 
me where she found it.” Then aloud she said : 

“ But it’s so hard to be patient and contented when 
nothing happens as you want it to, and you don’t get 
your share of happiness, no matter how much you try 
to deserve it.” 

“Tt ain’t easy to bear, I know, but having tried 
my own way and made a dreadful mess on ’t, I con- | 
cluded that the Lord knows what’s best for us, and j 
things go better when He manages than when we go 
scratchin’ round and can’t wait.” } 

“Tried your own way? How do you mean?” asked 
Christie, curiously; for she liked to hear her hostess 
talk, and found something besides amusement in the 
conversation, which seemed to possess a fresh country 
flavor as well as country phrases. 

Mrs. Wilkins smiled all over her plump face, as if 
she liked to tell her experience, and having hunched 
sleepy little Andy more comfortably into her lap, and 
given a preparatory hem or.two, she began with great 
good-will. 

“Tt happened a number a years ago and ain’t much 
of a story any way. But you’re welcome to it, as some 
of it is rather humorsome, the laugh may do you good 
ef the story don’t. We was livin’ down to the east’ard 
at the time. It was a real pretty place; the house 
stood under a couple of maples and a gret brook come 

* 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 187 


foamin’ down the rayvine and away through the med- 
ders to the river. Dear sakes, seems as ef I see it now, 
jest as I used to settin’ on the doorsteps with the lay- 
locks all in blow, the squirrels jabberin’ on the wall, 
and the saw-mill screekin’ way off by the dam.” 

Pausing a moment, Mrs. Wilkins looked musingly at 
the steam of the tea-kettle, as if through its. silvery 
haze she saw her early home again. Wash promptly 
roused her from this reverie by tumbling off the boiler 
with a crash. His mother picked him up and placidly 
went on, falling more and more into the country dia- 
lect which city life had not yet polished. 

“TJ oughter hev been the contentedest woman alive, 
but I warn’t, for you see I’d worked at millineryin’ 
before I was married, and had an easy time on’t, 
Afterwards the children come along pretty fast, there 
was sights of work to do, and no time for pleasurin’, 
so I got wore out, and used to hanker after old times 
in a dreadful wicked way. 

“Finally I got acquainted with a Mis Bascum, and 
she done me a sight of harm. Yousee, havin’ few pies 
of her own to bake, she was fond of puttin’ her fingers 
into her neighborses, but she done it so neat that no 
one mistrusted she was takin’ all the sarce and leavin’ 
all the crust to them, as you may say. Wal, I told her 
my werryments and she sympathized real hearty, and 
said I didn’t ought to stan’ it, but have things to suit 
me, and enjoy myself, as other folks did. So when she 
put it into my head I thought it amazin’ good advice, 
and jest went and done as she told me. 

“ Lisha was the kindest man you ever see, so when I 
up and said I warn’t goin’ to drudge round no more, 


188 WORK. 


but must hev a girl, he got one, and goodness knows 
what a trial she was. After she came I got dreadful 
slack, and left the house and the children to Hen’retta, 
and went pleasurin’ frequent all in my best. I always 
was a dressy woman in them days, and Lisha give me 
his earnin’s real lavish, bless his heart! and I went and 
spent ’em on my sinful gowns and bunnets.” 

Here Mrs. Wilkins stopped to give aremorseful groan 
and stroke her faded dress, as if she found great com- 
fort in its dinginess. 

“Tt ain’t no use tellin’ all I done, but I had full swing, 
and at fust I thought Inck was in my dish sure. But it 
warn’t, seein’ I didn’t deserve it, and I had to take my 
mess of trouble, which was needful and nourishin,’ ef 
I’d had the grace to see it so. 

“ Lisha got into debt, and no wonder, with me a 
wastin’ of his substance; Hen’retta went off suddin’, 


with whatever she could lay her hands on, and every- 


thing was at sixes and sevens. Lisha’s patience give 
out at last, for I was dreadful fractious, knowim’ it was 
all my fault. The children seemed to git out of sorts, 
too, and acted like time in the primer, with croup and 
pins, and whoopin’-cough and temper. I declare I 
used to think the pots and kettles biled over to spite 
each other and me too in them days. 

“ All this was nuts to Mis Bascum, and she kep’ 
advisin’ and encouragin’ of me, and I didn’t see through 
her a mite, or guess that settin’ folks by the ears was 
as relishin’ to her as bitters is to some. Merciful, suz! 
what a piece a work we did make betwixt us! I 
scolded and moped ’cause I couldn’t have my way; 
Lisha swore and threatened to take to drinkin’ ef I 


= 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 189 


didn’t make home more comfortable; the children run 
wild, and the house was gittin’ too hot to hold us, 
when we was brought up with a round turn, and I see 
the redicklousness of my doin’s in time. 

“One day Lisha come home tired and cross, for bills 
was pressin’, work slack, and folks talkin’ about us as 
ef they ’d nothin’ else to do. I was dishin’ up dinner, 
feelin’ as nervous as a witch, for a whole batch of 
bread had burnt to a cinder while I was trimmin’ a new 
bunnet, Wash had scart me most to death swallerin’ a 
cent, and the steak had been on the floor more’n once, 
owin’ to my havin’ babies, dogs, cats, or hens under 
my feet the whole blessed time. 

“¢ Lisha looked as black as thunder, throwed his hat 
into a corner, and came along to the sink where I was 
skinnin’ pertaters. As he washed his hands, I asked 
what the matter was; but he only muttered and 
slopped, and I couldn’t git nothin’ out of him, for he 
ain’t talkative at the best of times as you see, and when 
he’s werried corkscrews wouldn’t draw a word from 
him. 

“ Bein’ riled myself didn’t mend matters, and so we 
fell to hectorin’ one another right smart. He said 
somethin’ that dreened my last drop of patience; I 
give a sharp answer, and fust thing I knew he up with 
his hand and slapped me. It warn’t a hard blow by 
no means, only a kind of a wet spat side of the head; 
but I thought I should have flew, and was as mad as ef 
I’d been knocked down. You never see a man look so 
’shamed as Lisha did, and ef I’d been wise I should 
have made up the quarrel then. But I was a fool. I 
jest flung fork, dish, pertaters and all into the pot, and 
says, as ferce as you please: 


er 


190 WORK. 


“¢’Lisha Wilkins, when you can treat me decent you 
may come and fetch me back; you won’t see me till 
then, and so I tell you. 

“Then I made a bee-line for Mis Bascum’s; told her 
the whole story, had a good ery, and was all ready to 
go home in half an hour, but Lisha didn’t come. 

“ Wal, that night passed, and what a long one it was 
to be sure! and me without a wink of sleep, thinkin’ of 
Wash and the cent, my emptins and the baby. Next 
day come, but no Lisha, no message, no nuthin’, and I 
began to think I’d got my match though I had a sight 
of grit in them days. I sewed, and Mis Bascum she 
clacked; but I didn’t say much, and jest worked like 
sixty to pay for my keep, for I warn’t goin’ to be 
beholden to her for nothin’. 

“The day dragged on terriblé-stow, and at last I 
begged her to go and git me a clean dress, for I’d come 
off jest as I was, and folks kep’ droppin’ in, for the 
story was all round, thanks to Mis Bascum’s long 
tongue. 

“Wal, she went, and ef you'll believe me Lisha 
wouldn’t let her in! He handed my best things out a 
winder and told her to tell me they were gittin’ along 
fust rate with Florindy Walch to do the work. He 
hoped I’d have a good time, and not expect him for a 
consider’ble spell, for he liked a quiet house, and now 
he’d got it. 

“ When I heard that, I knew he must be provoked 
the wust kind, for he ain’t a hash man by nater. I 
could have crep’ in at the winder ef he wouldn’t open 
the door, I was so took down by that message. But 
Mis Bascum wouldn’t hear of it, and kep’ stirrin’ of 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 191 


me up till I was ashamed to eat ’umble pie fust; so I 
waited to see how soon he’d come round. But he had 
the best on’t you see, for he’d got the babies and lost a 
cross wife, while I’d lost every thing but Mis Bascum, 
who grew hatefuler to me every hour, for I begun to 
mistrust she was a mischief-maker, — widders most 
always 1s, — seein’ how she pampered up my pride and 
*peared to like the quarrel. 

“TI thought I should have died more’n once, for sure 
as you live it went on three mortal days, and of all 
miser’ble creeters I was the miser’blest. Then I see 
how wicked and ungrateful I’d been; how I’d shirked 
my bounden duty and scorned my best blessins. 
There warn’t a hard job that ever I’d hated but what 
grew easy when I remembered who it was done for; 
there warn’t a trouble or a care that I wouldn’t have 
welcomed hearty, nor one hour of them dear fractious 
babies that didn’t seem precious when I’d gone and 
left em. I7’d got time to rest enough now, and might go 
pleasuring all day long; but I couldn’t doit, and would 
have given a dozin bunnets trimmed to kill ef I could 
only have been back moilin’ in my old kitchen with 
the children hangin’ round me and Lisha a comin’ in 
cheerful from his work as he used to ’fore I spoilt his 
home for him. How sing’lar it is folks never do know 
when they are wal off!” 

“T know it now,” said Christie, rocking lazily to and 
fro, with a face almost as tranquil as little Vic’s, lying 
half asleep in her lap. 

“ Glad to hear it, my dear. As I was goin’ on to say, 
when Saturday come,a tremenjus storm set in, and it 
rained guns all day. I never shall forgit it, for I was 


192 WORK. 


hankerin’ after baby, and dreadful werried about the 
others, all bein’ croupy, and Florindy with no more 
idee of nussin’ than a baa lamb. The rain come down 
like a reg’lar deluge, but I didn’t seem to have no ark 
to run to. As night come on things got wuss and wuss, 
for the wind blowed the roof off Mis Bascum’s barn 
and stove in the butt’ry window; the brook riz and 
went ragin’ every which way, and you never did see 
such a piece of work. , 

“ My heart was most broke by that time, and I knew 
I should give in ’fore Monday. But I set and sewed and 
listened to the tinkle tankle of the drops in the pans set 
round to ketch ’em, for the house leaked like a sieve. 
Mis Bascum was down suller putterin’ about, for every 
kag and sarce jar was afloat. Moses, her brother, was 
lookin’ after his stock and tryin’ to stop the damage. 
All of a sudden he bust in lookin’ kinder wild, and 
settin? down the lantern, he sez, sez he: ‘You're 
ruthern an unfortinate woman to-night, Mis Wilkins.’ 
‘TIow so ?’ sez I, as ef nuthin’ was the matter already. 

“¢ Why,’ sez he, ‘the spilins have give way up in the 
rayvine, and the brook’s come down like a river, upsot 
your lean-to, washed the mellion patch slap into the 
road, and while your husband was tryin’ to git the pig 
out of the pen, the water took a turn and swep him 
away.’ 

“¢ Drownded ?’ sez I, with only breath enough for that 
one word. ‘Shouldn’t wonder, sez Moses, ‘nothin’ 
ever did come up alive after goin’ over them falls, 

“It come over me like a streak of lightenin’; every 
thin’ kinder slewed round, and I dropped in the first 
faint I ever had in my life. Next I knew Lisha was 


_—— 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 193 


holdin’ of me and-cryin’ fit to kill himself. I thought 
I was dreamin’, and only had wits enough to give a sort 
of permiscuous grab at him and call out: 

“<Oh, Lisha! ain’t you drownded?’ He give a gret 
start at that, swallered down his sobbin’, and sez as 
lovin’ as ever a man did in this world: 

“¢ Bless your dear heart, Cynthy, it warn’t me it was 
the pig ;’ and then fell to kissin’ of me, till betwixt 
laughin’ and cryin’ I was most choked. Deary me, it 
all comes back so livin’ real it kinder takes my breath 
away.” 

And well it might, for the good soul entered so 
heartily into her story that she unconsciously embel- 
lished it with dramatic illustrations. At the slapping 
episode she flung an invisible “fork, dish, and perta- 
ters” into an imaginary kettle, and glared; when the 
catastrophe arrived, she fell back upon her chair to ex- 
press fainting; gave Christie’s arm the “ permiscuous 
grab” at the proper moment, and uttered the repentant 
Lisha’s explanation with an incoherent pathos that 
forbid a laugh at the sudden introduction of the por- 
cine martyr. 

“ What did you do then?” asked Christie in a most 
flattering state of interest. 

“Oh, law! I went right home and hugged them 
children for a couple of hours stiddy,” answered Mrs. 
Wilkins, as if but one conclusion was possible. 

“Did all your troubles go down with the pig?” 
asked Christie, presently. 

“Massy, no, we’re all poor, feeble worms, and the 
best meanin’ of us fails too often,” sighed Mrs. Wilkins, 
as she tenderly adjusted the sleepy head of the young 

9 I 


194 WORK. 


worm in her lap. “ After that scrape I done my best; 
Lisha was as meek as a whole flock of sheep, and we 
give Mis Bascum a wide berth. Things went lovely for 
ever so long, and though, after a spell, we had our ups 
and downs, as is but natural to human creeters, we 
never come to such a pass agin. Both on us tried 
real hard; whenever I felt my temper risin’ or discon- 
tent comin’ on I remembered them days and kep’ a 
taut rein; and as for Lisha he never said a raspin’ 
word, or got sulky, but what he’d bust out laughin’ 
after it and say: ‘Bless you, Cynthy, it warn’t me, it 
was the pig.” ; 

Mrs. Wilkins’ hearty laugh fired a long train of lesser 
ones, for the children recognized a household word. 
Christie enjoyed the joke, and even the tea-kettle 
boiled over as if carried away by the fun. 

“Tell some more, please,” said Christie, when the 
merriment subsided, for she felt her spirits rising. 

“There ’s nothin’ more to tell, except one thing that 
prevented my ever forgittin’ the lesson I got then. My 
httle Almiry took cold that week and pined away 
rapid. She’d always been so ailin’ I never expeeted to 
raise her, and more’n once in them sinful tempers of 
mine I’d thought it would be a mercy ef she was took 
out of her pain. But when I laid away that patient, 
sufferin’ little ereeter I found she was the dearest of 
7em all. I most broke my heart to hev her back, and 
never, never forgive myself for leavin’ her that time.” 

With trembling lips and full eyes Mrs. Wilkins 
stopped to wipe her features generally on Andrew 
Jackson’s pinafore, and heave a remorseful sigh. 

“ And this is how you came to be the cheerful, con- 


ee 


A CURE FOR DESPAIR. 195 


tented woman you are?” said Christie, hoping to 
divert the mother’s mind from that too tender memory. 

“ Yes,” she answered, thoughtfully, “I told you Lisha 
was a smart man; he give me a good lesson, and it set 
me to thinkin’ serious. ’Pears to me trouble is a kind 
of mellerin’ process, and ef you take it kindly it doos 
you good, and you learn to be glad of it. I’m sure Lisha 
and me is twice as fond of one another, twice as 
willin’ to work, and twice as patient. with our trials 
sense dear little Almiry died, and times was hard. 
I ain’t what I ought to be, not by a long chalk, but I 


try to live up to my light, do my duty cheerful, love. 


my neighbors, and fetch up my family in the fear of 
God. Ef I do this the best way I know how, I’m sure 
I’ll get my rest some day, and the good Lord won’t 
forgit Cynthy Wilkins. He ain’t so fur, for I keep my 
health wonderfle, Lisha is kind and stiddy, the children 
flourishin’, and I’m a happy woman though I bea humly 
one.” 

There she was mistaken, for as her eye roved round 
the narrow room from the old hat on the wall to the 
curly heads bobbing here and there, contentment, 
piety, and mother-love made her plain face beautiful. 

“That story has done me ever so much good, and I 
shall not forget it. Now, good-night, for I must be up 
early to-morrow, and I don’t want to drive Mr. Wilkins 
away entirely,” said Christie, after she had helped put 
the little folk to bed, during which process she had 
heard her host creaking about the kitchen as if afraid 
to enter the sitting-room. 

She laughed as she spoke, and ran up stairs, wonder- 
ing if she could be the same forlorn creature who **° 
crept so wearily up only the night before. 


196 WORK. 


It was a very humble little sermon that Mrs. Wilkins 
had preached to her, but she took it to heart and 
_ profited by it; for she was a pupil in the great charity 
V school where the best teachers are often unknown, un- 
honored here, but who surely will receive commendation 
and reward from the head master when their long vaca- 
lion corn es. 


CHAPTER IX. 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 


Mr. Power. 


EXT day Christie braved the lion in his den, 
otherwise the flinty Flint, in her second-class 
boarding-house, and found that alarm and remorse had 
produced a softening effect upon her. She was unfeign- 
edly glad to see her lost lodger safe, and finding that 
the new friends were likely to put her in the way of 
paying her debts, this much harassed matron permitted 
her to pack up her possessions, leaving one trunk as a 
sort of hostage. Then, with promises to redeem it as 


sf 


A/ 


198 WORK. 


soon as possible, Christie said good-bye to the little 
room where she had hoped and suffered, lived and 
labored so long, and went joyfully back to the humble 
home she had found with the good laundress. 

All the following week Christie “ chored round,” as 
Mrs. Wilkins called the miscellaneous light work she 
Jet her do. Much washing, combing, and clean pina- 


/foring of children fell to her share, and she enjoyed it 


amazingly; then, when the elder ones were packed off 
to school she lent a hand to any of the numberless 
tasks housewives find to do from morning till night. 
In the afternoon, when other work was done, and little 
Vic asleep or happy with her playthings, Christie 
clapped laces, sprinkled muslins, and picked out edg- 
ings at the great table where Mrs. Wilkins stood 
ironing, fluting, and crimping till the kitchen bristled 
all over with immaculate frills and flounces. 

It was pretty delicate work, and Christie liked it, for 
Mrs. Wilkins was an adept at her trade and took as 
much pride and pleasure in it as any French dlanchis- 
seuse tripping through the streets of Paris with a tree 
full of coquettish caps, capes, and petticoats borne 
before her by a half invisible boy. 

/Being women, of course they talked as industriously 
as they worked; fingers flew and tongues clacked with 
equal profit and pleasure, and, by Saturday, Christie 
had made up her mind that Mrs. Wilkins was the.most 
sensible woman she ever knew. Her grammar was an 
outrage upon the memory of Lindley Murray, but the 
goodness of her heart would have done honor to any 
saint in the calendar. She was very plain,.and her 
manners were by no means elegant, but good temper 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 199 


made that homely face most lovable, and natural refine- 
ment of soul made mere external polish of small 
account. Her shrewd ideas and odd sayings amused 
Christie very much, while her good sense and bright 
way of looking at things did the younger woman a 
world of good. 

Mr. Wilkins devoted himself to the making of shoes 
and the consumption of food, with the silent regularity 
of a placid animal. His one dissipation was tobacco, 
and in a fragrant cloud 6f smoke he lived and moved 
and had his being so entirely that he might have been 
described as a pipe with a man somewhere behind it. 
Christie once laughingly spoke of this habit and de- 
clared she would try it herself if she thought it would 

make her as quiet and undemonstrative as ‘Mr. Wilkins, 
who, to tell the truth, made no more impression on her 
than a fly. 

“I don’t approve on’t, but he might do wuss. We 
all have to have our comfort somehow, so I let Lisha 
smoke as much as he likes, and he lets me gab, so it’s 
about fair, 1 reckon,” answered Mrs. Wilkins, from the 
suds. | 

She laughed as she spoke, but something in her face 
made Christie suspect that at some period of his life 
Lisha had done “ wuss;” and subsequent observations 
confirmed this suspicion and another one also, — that 
his good wife had saved him, and was gently easing 
him back to self-control and self-respect. But, as old 
Fuller quaintly says, “She so gently folded up his 
faults in silence that few guessed them,” and loyally 
paid him that respect which she desired others to 
bestow. It was always “Lisha and me,” “I’ll ask my 


200 WORK. 


husband ” or “ Lisha’ll know; he don’t say much, but 
he’s a dreadful smart man,” and she kept up the fiction 


so dear to her wifely soul by endowing him with her 


own virtues, and giving him the credit of her own 
intelligence. 

Christie loved her all the better for this devotion, 
and for her sake treated Mr. Wilkins as if he possessed 
the strength of Samson and the wisdom of Solomon. 
He received her respect as if it was his due, and now 
and then graciously accorded “her a few words beyond 
the usual scanty allowance of morning and evening 
greetings. At his shop all day, she only saw him at 
meals and sometimes of an evening, for Mrs. Wilkins 
tried to keep him at home safe from temptation, and 
Christie helped her by reading, talking, and frolicking 
with the children, so that he might find home attrac- 
tive. He loved his babies and would even relinquish 
his precious pipe for a time to ride the little chaps on 
his foot, or amuse Vic with shadow rabbits on the 
wall. 

At such times the entire content in Mrs. Wilkins’s 
face made tobacco fumes endurable, and the burden of 
a dull man’s presence less oppressive to Christie, who 
loved to pay her debts in something besides money. 

As they sat together finishing off some delicate laces 
that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins said, “Ef it’s 
fair to-morrow I want you to go to my meetin’ and 
hear my minister. It ’ll do you good.” 

“Who is he?” 

“Mr. Power.” 

Christie looked rather startled, for she had heard of 
Thomas Power as a rampant radical and infidel of the 


| 
\ 
. 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 201 


deepest dye, and been warned never to visit that den 
of iniquity called his free church. 

“Why, Mrs. Wilkins, you don’t mean it!” she said, 
leaving her lace to dry at the most critical stage. 

“Yes, I do!” answered Mrs. Wilkins, setting down 
her flat-iron with emphasis, and evidently preparing to 
fight valiantly for her minister,.as most women will) 

“T beg your pardon; I was a little surprised, for I’d 
heard all sorts of things about him,” Christie hastened 
to say. 

“Did you ever hear him, or read any of his writ- 
ins?” demanded Mrs. Wilkins, with a calmer air. 

¢ Never.” 

“Then don’t judge. You go hear and see that 
blessed man, and ef you don’t say he’s the shadder of 
a great rock in a desert land, I’ll give up,” cried the 
good woman, waxing poetical in her warmth. 

“T will to please you, if nothing else. I did go once 
just because I was told not to; but he did not preach 
that day and every thing was so peculiar, I didn’t know 
whether to like it or be shocked.” 

“Tt is kind of sing’lar at fust, I’m free to confess, 
and not as churchy as some folks like. But there 
ain’t no place but that big enough to hold the crowds 
that want to go, for the more he’s abused the more 
folks flock to see him. They git their money’s wuth I 
do believe, for though there ain’t no pulpits and pews, 
there’s a sight of brotherly love round in them seats, 
and pious practice, as well as powerful preaching, in 
that shabby desk. He don’t need no commandments 
painted up behind him to read on Sunday, for he keeps 


Q* 


202 WORK. 


’em in his heart and life all the week as honest as man 
can.” 

There Mrs. Wilkins paused, flushed and breathless 
with her defence, and Christie said, candidly: “I did 
like the freedom and good-will there, for people sat 
where they liked, and no one frowned over shut pew- 
doors, at me a stranger. An old black woman sat next 
me, and said ‘Amen’ when she liked what she heard, 
and a very shabby young man was on the other, listen- 
ing as if his soul was as hungry as his body. People 
read books, laughed and cried, clapped when pleased, 
and hissed when angry ; that I did no? like.” 

“ No more does Mr. Power; he don’t mind the cryin’ 
and the smilin’ as it’s nat’ral, but noise and disrespect 
of no kind ain’t pleasin’ to him. His own folks behave 
becomin’, but strangers go and act as they like, think- 
in’ that there ain’t no bounds to the word free. Then 
we are picked at for their doin’s, and Mr. Power has to 
carry other folkses’ sins on his shoulders. But, dear 
suz, it ain't much matter after all, ef the souls is well- 
meanin’. Children always make a noise a strivin’ after 
what they want most, and I shouldn’t wonder ef the 
Lord forgive all our short-comin’s of that sort, sense 
we are hankerin’ and reachin’ for the truth.” 

“JT wish I had heard Mr. Power that day, for I was 
striving after peace with all my heart, and he might 
have given it to me,” said Christie, interested and im- 
pressed with what she heard. 

“ Wal, no, dear, I guess not. Peace ain’t give to no 
one all of a suddin, it gen’lly comes through much 
tribulation, and the sort that comes hardest is best 
wuth havin’. Mr. Power would a’ ploughed and har- 


MRS. WILKINS'S MINISTER. 203 


rered you, so to speak, and sowed good seed liberal ; 
then ef you warn’t barren ground things would have 
throve, and the Lord give you a harvest accordin’ to 
your labor. Who did you hear?” asked Mrs. Wilkins, 
pausing to starch and clap vigorously. 

“ A very young man who seemed to be airing his 
ideas and beliefs in the frankest manner. He belabored 
everybody and every thing, upset church and state, 
called names, arranged heaven and earth to suit him- 
self, and evidently meant every word he said. Much 
of it would have been ridiculous if the boy had not 
been so thoroughly in earnest; sincerity always com- 
mands respect, and though people smiled, they liked 
his courage, and seemed to think he would make a man 
when his spivitualwild oats were sown.”) 

“T ain't a doubt on’t. We often have such, and 
they ain’t all empty talk, nuther; some of ’em are sur- 
prisingly bright, and all mean so well I don’t never 
reluct to hear’em. They must blow off their steam 
somewheres, else they ’d bust with the big idees a 
swellin’ in’em; Mr. Power knows it and gives ’em the 
chance they can’t find nowheres else. ’Pears to me,” 
added Mrs. Wilkins, ironing rapidly as she spoke, “ that 
folks is very like clothes, and a sight has to be done to 
keep ’em clean and whole. All on us has to lend a 
hand in this dreadful mixed-up wash, and each do our 
part, same as you and me isnow. There’s scrubbin’ 
and bilin’, wrenchin’ and bluein’, dryin’ and foldin’, 
ironin’ and polishin’, before any of us is fit for wear a 
Sunday mornin’.” 

“What part does Mr. Power do?” asked Christie, 
much amused at this peculiarly appropriate simile. 


204 WORK. 


“The scrubbin’ and the bilin’; that’s always the 
hardest and the hottest part. He starts the dirt and 
gits the stains out, and leaves ’em ready for other folks 
to finish off It ain’t such pleasant work as hangin’ 
out, or such pretty work as doin’ up, but some one’s 
got to do it, and them that’s strongest does it best, 
though they don’t git half so much credit as them as 
polishes and crimps. That’s showy work, but it 
wouldn’t be no use ef the things warn’t well washed 
fust,” and Mrs. Wilkins thoughtfully surveyed the 
snowy muslin cap, with its border fluted like the petals 
of a prim white daisy, that hung on her hand. 

“Jd like to be a washerwoman of that sort; but as 
I’m not one of the strong, Ill be a laundress, and try 
to make purity as attractive as you do,” said Christie, 
soberly. 

“ Ah, my dear, it’s warm and wearin’ work I do 
assure you, and hard to give satisfaction, try as you 
may. Crowns of glory ain’t wore in this world, but 
it’s my pinion that them that does the hard jobs here 
will stand a good chance of havin’ extra bright ones 
when they git through.” 

“T know you will,” said Christie, warmly. 

“Land alive, child! I warn’t thinking of Cynthy 
Wilkins, but Mr. Power. Ill be satisfied ef I can set 
low down somewheres and see him git the meddle. 
He won’t in this world, but I know there’s rewards 
savin’ up for him byme-by.” 

“T’ll go to-morrow if it pours!” said Christie, with 
decision. 

“Do, and I’ll lend you my bunnit,” cried Mrs. Wil- 
kins, passing, with comical rapidity, from crowns of 
_glory to her own cherished head-gear. 
eats 2 7 yal eee ee Nam 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 205 


“ Thank you, but I can’t wear blue, I look as yellow 
as a dandelion in it. Mrs. Flint let me have my best 
things though I offered to leave them, so I shall be 
respectable and by-and-by blossom out.” 

On the morrow Christie went early, got a good seat, 
and for half an hour watched the gathering of the 
motley congregation that filled the great hall. Some 
came in timidly, as if doubtful of their welcome ; some 
noisily, as if, as Mrs. Wilkins said, they had not learned 
the wide difference between liberty and license; many 
as if eager and curious; and a large number with the 
look of children gathering round a family table ready 
to be fed, and sure that wholesome food would be 
bountifully provided for them. 

Christie was struck by the large proportion of young 
people in the place, of all classes, both sexes, and 
strongly contrasting faces. Delicate girls looking with 
the sweet wistfulness of maidenly hearts for something 
strong to lean upon and love; sad-eyed women turning 
to heaven for the consolations or the satisfactions earth 
could not give them; anxious mothers perplexed with 
many cares, trying to find light and strength; young 
men with ardent faces, restless, aspiring, and impetuous, 
longing to do and dare; tired-looking students, with 
exc} wrinkles on thet michends evidently come 
to see if this man had discovered the great secrets 
they were delving after; and soul-sick people trying 
this new, and perhaps dangerous medicine, when others 
failed to cure. Many earnest, thoughtful men and 
women were there, some on the anxious seat, and some 
already at peace, having found the clew that leads safely 
through the labyrinth of life. Here and there a white 


206 WORK. 


head, a placid old face, or one of those fine counte- 
nances that tell, unconsciously, the beautiful story of 
a victorious soul. 

Some read, some talked, some had flowers in their 
hands, and all sat at ease, rich and poor, black and 
white, young and old, waiting for the coming of the 
man who had power to attract and hold so many of his 
kind. Christie was so intent on watching those about 
her that she did not see him enter, and only knew it by 
the silence which began just in front of her, and seemed 
to flow backward like a wave, leaving a sea of expec- 
tant faces turning to one point. That point was a 
gray head, just visible above the little desk which 
stood in the middle of a great platform. A vase of 
lovely flowers was on the little shelf at one side, a 
great Bible reposed on the other, and a manuscript lay 
on the red slope between. 

In a moment Christie forgot every thing else, and 
waited with a curious anxiety to see what manner of 
man this was. Presently he got up with an open book 
in his hand, saying, in a strong, cheerful voice: “Let 
us sing,” and having read a hymn as if he had com- 
posed it, he sat down again. 

Then everybody did sing; not harmoniously, but 
heartily, led by an organ, which the voices followed at 
their own sweet will. At first, Christie wanted to 
smile, for some shouted and some hummed, some sat 
silent, and others sung sweetly; but before the hymn 
ended she liked it, and thought that the natural praise 
of each individual soul was perhaps more grateful to 
the ear of God than masses by great masters, or psalms 
warbled tunefully by hired opera singers. 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 207 


Then Mr. Power rose again, and laying his hands 
together, with a peculiarly soft and reverent gesture, 
lifted up his face and prayed. Christie had never heard 
a prayer like that before; so devout, so comprehensive, 
and so brief. A quiet talk with God, asking nothing 
but more love and duty toward Him and our fellow- 
men; thanking Him for many mercies, and confiding all 
things trustfully to the “dear father and mother of 
souls.” it ane Wicd eee pane 
~The sermon which followed was as peculiar as the 
prayer, and as effective. “One of Power’s judgment- 
day sermons,” as she heard one man say to another, 
when it was over. Christie certainly felt at first as if 
kingdoms and thrones were going down, and each man 
being sent to his own place. A powerful and popular 
wrong was arrested, tried, and sentenced then and 
there, with a courage and fidelity that made plain 
words eloquent, and stern justice beautiful. He did 
not take David of old for his text, but the strong, 
sinful, splendid Davids of our day, who had not fulfilled 
the promise of their youth, and whose seeming success 
was a delusion and a snare to themselves and others, 
sure to be followed by sorrowful abandonment, defeat, 
and shame. The ashes of the ancient hypocrites and 
Pharisees was left in peace, but those now living were 
heartily denounced; modern money-changers scourged 
out of the temple, and the everlasting truth set up 
therein. 

As he spoke, not loudly nor vehemently, but with 
the indescribable effect of inward force and true inspi- 
ration, a curious stir went through the crowd at times, 
as a great wind sweeps over a corn field, lifting the 


208 WORK. 


broad leaves to the light and testing the strength of 
root and stem. People looked at one another with a 
roused expression; eyes kindled, heads nodded invol- 
untary approval, and an emphatic, “ that’s so!” dropped 
from the lips of men who saw their own vague instincts 
and silent opinions strongly confirmed and nobly 
uttered. Consciences seemed to have been pricked to 
duty, eyes cleared to see that their golden idols had 
feet of clay, and wavering wills strengthened by the 
salutary courage and integrity of one indomitable man. 

Another hymn, and a benediction that seemed like a 
fit grace after meat, and then the crowd poured out ; 
not yawning, thinking of best clothes, or longing for 
dinner, but waked up, full of talk, and eager to do 
something to redeem the country and the world. 

Christie went rapidly home because she could not 
help it, and burst in upon Mrs. Wilkins with a face full 
of enthusiasm, exclaiming, while she cast off her bonnet 
as if her head had outgrown it since she left: 

“Tt was splendid! I never heard such a sermon 
before, and I’ll never go to church anywhere else.” 

“]T knew it! ain’t it fillin’? don’t it give you a kind 
of spirital list, and make things wuth more some- 
how?” cried Mrs. Wilkins, gesticulating with the 
pepper-pot in a way which did not improve the steak 
she was cooking, and caused great anguish to the noses 
of her offspring, who were watching the operation. 

Quite deaf to the chorus of sneezes which accom- 
panied her words, Christie answered, brushing back 
her hair, as if to get a better out-look at creation gen- 
erally : 

“Oh, yes, indeed! At first it was rather terrible, 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 209 


and yet so true I wouldn’t change a word of it. But I 
don’t wonder he is misunderstood, belied, and abused. 
He tells the truth so plainly, and lets in the light so 
clearly, that hypocrites and sinners must fear and hate 
him. I think he was a little hard and unsparing, some- 
times, though I don’t know enough to judge the men 
and-measures he condemned. I admire him very much, 
but I should be afraid of him if I ever saw him nearer.” 

“No, you wouldn’t; not a grain. You hear him 
preach agin and you'll find him as gentle as a lamb. 
Strong folks is apt to be ruther ha’sh at times; they 
can’t help it no more than this stove can help scorchin’ 
the vittles when it gits red hot. Dinner’s ready, so set 
right up and tell me all about it,” said Mrs. Wilkins, 
slapping the steak on to the platter, and beginning to 
deal out fried potatoes all round with absent-minded 
lavishness. 

Christie talked, and the good soul enjoyed that far 
more than her dinner, for she meant to ask Mr. Power 
to help her find the right sort of home for the stranger 
whose unfitness for her present place was every day 
made more apparent to the mind of her hostess. 

“What took you there first?” asked Christie, still 
wondering at Mrs. Wilkins’s choice of a minister. 

“ The Lord, my dear,” answered the good woman, in 
atone of calm conviction. “I’d heard of him, and I 
always have a leanin’ towards them that’s reviled; so 
one Sabbath I felt to go, and did. ‘That’s the gospel 
for me, says I,‘my old church ain’t big enough now, 
and I ain’t goin’ to set and nod there any longer, and 
I didn’t.” 

“Hadn't you any doubts about it, any fears of going 

N 


210 WORK. 


wrong or being sorry afterwards?” asked Christie, 
who believed, as many do, that religion could not be 
attained without much tribulation of some kind. 

“In some things folks is led; I be frequent, and 
when them leadin’s come I don’t ask no questions but 
jest foller, and it always turns out right.” 

“ T wish I could be led.” 

“You be, my dear, every day of your life only you 
don’t see it. When you are doubtful, set still till the 
call comes, then git up and walk whichever way it 
says, and you won't fall. You’ve had bread and water 
long enough, now you want meat and wine a spell; 
take it, and when it’s time for milk and honey some 
one will fetch ’em ef you keep your table ready. The 
Lord feeds us right; it’s we that quarrel with our 
vittles.” : 

“JT will,” said Christie, and began at once to prepare 
her little board for the solid food of which she had had 
a taste that day. 

That afternoon Mrs. Wilkins took her turn at church- 
going, saw Mr. Power, told Christie’s story in her 
best style, and ended by saying: 

“She’s true grit, I do assure you, sir. Willin’ to 
work, but she’s seen the hard side of things and got 
kind of discouraged. Soul and body both wants tink- 
erin’ up, and I don’t know anybody who can do the 
job better ’n you can.” 

“ Very well, I’ll come and see her,’ answered Mr. 
Power, and Mrs. Wilkins went home well satisfied. 

Tle kept his word, and about the middle of the week 
came walking in upon them as they were at work. 

“ Don’t let the irons cool,” he said, and sitting down 


p) 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. yA 


in the kitchen began to talk as comfortably as if in the 
best parlor; more so, perhaps, for best parlors are apt 
to have a depressing effect upon the spirits, while 
the mere sight of labor is exhilarating to energetic 
minds. 

He greeted Christie kindly, and then addressed him- 
self to Mrs. Wilkins on various charitable matters, for 
he was a minister at large, and she one of his almoners. 
Christie could really see him now, for when he preached 
she forgot the man in the sermon, and thought of him 
' only as a visible conscience. 

A sturdy man of fifty, with a keen, brave face, pene- 
trating eyes, and mouth a little grim; but a voice so 
resonant and sweet it reminded one of silver trumpets, 
and stirred and won the hearer with irresistible power. 
Rough gray hair, and all the features rather rugged, as 
if the Great Sculptor had blocked out a grand statue, 
and left the man’s own soul to finish it. 

Had Christie known that he came to see her she 
would have been ill at ease; but Mrs. Wilkins had kept 
her own counsel, so when Mr. Power turned to Christie, 
saying : 

“My friend here tells me you want something to do. 
Would you like to help a Quaker lady with her house- 
work, just out of town?” 

She answered readily: “ Yes, sir, any thing that 
is honest.” 

“Not as a servant, exactly, but companion and 
helper. Mrs. Sterling is a dear old lady, and the place 
a pleasant little nest. It is good to be there, and I 
think you ’ll say so if you go.” 

“It sounds pleasant. When shall I go?” 


212 | WORK. 


Mr. Power smiled at her alacrity, but the longing 
look in her eyes explained it, for he saw at a glance 
that her place was not here. 

“J will write at once and let you know how matters 
are settled. Then you shall try it, and if it is not what 
you want, we will find you something else. There’s 
plenty to do, and nothing pleasanter than to put the 
right pair of hands to the right task. Good-by; come 
and see me if the spirit moves, and don’t let go of Mrs. 
Wilkins till you lay hold of a better friend, if you can 
find one.” 

Then he shook hands cordially, and went walk- 
ing out again into the wild March weather as if he 
liked it. 

“ Were you afraid of him?” asked Mrs. Wilkins. 

“T forgot all about it: he looked so kind and friendly. 
But I shouldn’t like to have those piercing eyes of his 
fixed on me long if I had any secret on my conscience,” 
answered Christie. 

“You ain’t nothin’ to fear. He liked your way of 
speakin’ fust rate, I see that, and youll be all right 
now he’s took hold.” 

“Do you know Mrs. Sterling ?” 

“Only by sight, but she’s a sweet appearin’ woman, 
and I wouldn’t ask nothin’ better’n to see more of 
her,” said Mrs. Wilkins, warmly, fearing Christie’s heart 
might misgive her. 

But it did not, and when a note came saying Mrs. 
Sterling would be ready for her the next week, she 
seemed quite content with every thing, for though the 
wages were not high she felt that country air and quiet 
were worth more to her just then than money, and 
that Wilkinses were better taken homeopathically. 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 213 


The spirit did move her to go and see Mr. Power, but 
she could not make up her mind to pass that invisible 
barrier which stands between so many who could give 
one another genuine help if they only dared to ask it. 
But when Sunday came she went to church, eager 
for more, and thankful that she knew where to go 
for it. 

This was a very different sermon from the other, and 
Christie felt as if he preached it for her alone. “ Keep 
innocency and take heed to the thing that is right, for 
this will bring a man peace at the last,” might have 
been the text, and Mr. Power treated it as if he had 
known all the trials and temptations that made it hard 
to live up to. 

Justice and righteous wrath possessed him before, 
now mercy and tenderest sympathy for those who 
faltered in well-doing, and the stern judge seemed 
changed to a pitiful father. But better than the pity 
was the wise counsel, the cheering words, and the de- 
vout surrender of the soul to its best instincts; its 
close communion with its Maker, unchilled by fear, 
untrammelled by the narrowness of sect or supersti- 
tion, but full and free and natural as the breath of 
life. 

As she listened Christie. felt as if she was climbing up 
from a solitary valley, through mist and shadow toward 
a mountain top, where, though the way might be rough 
and strong winds blow, she would get a wider outlook 
over the broad earth, and be nearer the serene blue 
sky. For the first time in her life religion seemed a 
visible and vital thing; a power that she could grasp 


real) 


and feel, take into her life and make her daily bread. 


214 WORK. 


Not a vague, vast idea floating before her, now beauti- 
ful, now terrible, always undefined and far away. 

She was strangely and powerfully moved that day, for 
the ploughing had begun; and when the rest stood up 
for the last hymn, Christie could only bow her head 
and let the uncontrollable tears flow down like summer 
rain. while her heart sang with new aspiration : 


“Nearer, my God, to thee, 
E’en though a cross it be 
That raiseth me, 

Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 
Nearer to thee!” 


Sitting with her hand before her eyes, she never 
stirred till the sound of many feet told her that service 
was done. Then she wiped her eyes, dropped her veil, 
and was about to rise when she saw a little bunch of 
flowers between the leaves of the hymn book lying 
open in her lap. Only a knot of violets set in their 
own broad leaves, but blue as friendly eyes looking 
into hers, and sweet as kind words whispered in her 
ear. She looked about her hoping to detect and thank 
the giver; but all faces were turned the other way, and 
all feet departing rapidly. 

Christie followed with a very grateful thought in her 
heart for this little kindness from some unknown friend ; 
and, anxious to recover herself entirely before she faced 
Mrs. Wilkins, she took a turn in the park. 

The snow was gone, high winds had dried the walk, 
and a clear sky overhead made one forget sodden turf 
and chilly air. March was going out like a lamb, and 
Christie enjoyed an occasional vernal whiff from far-off 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. 215 


‘fields and wakening woods, as she walked down the 
broad mall watching the buds on the boughs, and lis- 
tening to the twitter of the sparrows, evidently discuss- 
ing the passers-by as they sat at the doors of their little 
mansions. 

Presently she turned to walk back again and saw 
Mr. Power coming toward her. She was glad, for all 
her fear had vanished now, and she wanted to thank 
him for the sermon that had moved her so deeply. He 
shook hands in his cordial way, and, turning, walked 
with her, beginning at once to talk ou her iia as if 
interested in hed 

“ Are you ready for the new experiment?” he asked. 

“Quite ready, sir; very glad to go, and very much 
obliged to you for your kindness in providing for 
me.” 

“That is what we were put into the world for, to help 
one another. You can pass on the kindness by serving 
my good friends who, in return, will do their best for 
you.” 

“That ’s so pleasant! I always knew there were 
plenty of good, friendly people in the world, only I did 
not seem to find them often, or be able to keep them 
long when I did. Is Mr. Sterling an agreeable old 
man?” 

“Very agreeable, but not old. David is about 
thirty-one or two, I think. He is the son of my 
friend, the husband died some years ago. I thought I 
mentioned it.” 

“You said in your note that Mr. Sterling was a florist, 
and might like me to help in the green-house, if I was 
willing. It must be lovely work, and I should like it 
very much.” 


216 WORK. 


“ Yes, David devotes himself to his flowers, and leads — 


avery quiet life. You may think him rather grave and 
blunt at first, but you ’ll soon find him out and get on 
comfortably, for he is a truly excellent fellow, and my 
right-hand man in good works.” 

A curious little change had passed over Christie’s face 
during these last questions and answers, unconscious, 
but quite observable to keen eyes like Mr. Power's. 
Surprise and interest appeared first, then a shadow of 
reserve as if the young woman dropped a thin veil be- 
tween herself and the young man, and at the last words 
a half smile and a slight raising of the brows seemed to 
express the queer mixture of pity and indifference with 
which we are all apt to regard “ excellent fellows” and 
“amiable girls.” Mr. Power understood the look, and 
went on more confidentially than he had at first in- 
tended, for he did not want Christie to go off with a 
prejudice in her mind which might do both David and 
herself injustice. 

“People sometimes misjudge him, for he is rather 
old-fashioned in manner and plain in speech, and may 
seem unsocial, because he does not seek society. But 
those who know the cause of this forgive any little 
short-comings for the sake of the genuine goodness of 
the man. David had a great trouble some years ago 
and suffered much. He is learning to bear it bravely, 
and is the better for it, though the memory of it is still 
bitter, and the cross hard to bear even with pride to 
help him hide it, and principle to keep him from 
despair.” 

Mr. Power glanced at Christie as he paused, and was 
satisfied with the effect of his words, for interest, pity, 


: 
| 


MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER. Jays 


and respect shone in her face, and proved that he had 
touched the right string. She seemed to feel that this 
little confidence was given for a purpose, and showed 
that she accepted it as a sort of gage for her own fidelity 
to her new employers. 

“Thank you, sir, I shall remember,” she said, with 
her frank eyes lifted gravely to his own. “I like to 
work for people whom I can respect,” she added, “ and 
will bear with any peculiarities of Mr. Sterling’s with- 
out a thought of complaint. When a man has suffered 
through one woman, all women should be kind and 
patient with him, and try to atone for the wrong which 
lessens his respect and faith in them.” 

“There you are right; and in this case all women 
should be kind, for David pities and protects woman- 
kind as the only retaliation for the life-long grief one 
woman brought upon him. That’s not a common re- 
venge, is it?” 

“It’s beautiful!” cried Christie, and instantly David 
was a hero. 

“ At one time it was an even chance whether that 
trouble sent David to ‘the devil, as he expressed it, or 
madea man of him. That little saint of a mother kept 
him safe till the first desperation was over, and now he 
lives for her, as he ought. Not so romantic an ending 
as a pistol or Byronic scorn for the world in general 
and women in particular, but dutiful and brave, since 
it often takes more courage to live than to die.” 

** Yes, sir,” said Christie, heartily, though her eyes 
fell, remembering how she had failed with far less 
cause for despair than Dayid. 

10 


~~ 


218 WORK. 


They were at the gate now, and Mr. Power left her, 
saying, with a vigorous hand-shake: 

“ Best wishes for a happy summer. I shall come 
sometimes to see how you prosper; and remember, if 
you tire of it and want to change, let me know, for I 
take great satisfaction in putting the right people in the 
right places. Good-by, and God be with you.” 


CHAPTER X, 


BEGINNING AGAIN, 


/ 
L, 


SSsy 


SS 


iil 


Uy 


Pa 
i 


SSS 


Mrs. STERLING. 


T was an April day when Christie went to her new 
home. Warm rains had melted the last trace of 
snow, and every bank was full of pricking grass-blades, 
brave little pioneers and heralds of the Spring. The 
budding elm boughs swung in the wind; blue-jays 
screamed among the apple-trees; and robins chirped 
shrilly, as if rejoicing over winter hardships safely 
passed. Vernal freshness was in the air despite its 
chill, and lovely hints of summer time were every- 
where. 


220 WORK. 


These welcome sights and sounds met Christie, as 
she walked down the lane, and, coming to a gate, 
paused there to look about her. An old-fashioned 
cottage stood in the midst of a garden just awakening 
from its winter sleep. One elm hung protectingly over 
the low roof, sunshine lay warmly on it, and at every 
window flowers’ bright faces smiled at the passer-by 
invitingly. 

On one side glittered a long green-house, and on the 
other stood a barn, with a sleek cow ruminating in the 
yard, and an inquiring horse poking his head out of his 
stall to view the world. Many comfortable gray hens 
were clucking and scratching about the hay-strewn 
floor, and a flock of doves sat cooing on the roof. 

A quiet, friendly place it looked; for nothing marred 
its peace, and the hopeful, healthful spirit of the season 
seemed to haunt the spot. Snow-drops and crocuses 
were up in one secluded nook; a plump maltese cat sat 
purring in the porch; and a dignified old dog came 
marching down the walk to escort the stranger in. 
With a brightening face Christie went up the path, 
and tapped at the quaint knocker, hoping that the face 
she was about to see would be in keeping with the 
pleasant place. 

She was not disappointed, for the dearest of little 
Quaker ladies opened to her, with such an air of peace 
and good-will that the veriest ruflian, coming to molest 
or make afraid, would have found it impossible to mar 
the tranquillity of that benign old face, or disturb one 
fold of the soft muslin crossed upon her breast. 

“I come from Mr. Power, and I have a note for 
Mrs. Sterling,” began Christie in her gentlest tone, as 


BEGINNING AGalIN. 221 


her last fear vanished at sight of that mild maternal 
figure. 

“Tam she; come in, friend; I am glad to see thee,” 
said the old lady, smiling placidly, as she led the way 
into a room whose principal furniture seemed to be 
books, flowers, and sunshine. 

The look, the tone, the gentle “ thee,” went straight 
to Christie’s heart ; and, while Mrs. Sterling put on her 
spectacles and slowly read the note, she stroked the cat 
and said to herself: “ Surely, I have fallen among a set 
of angels. I thought Mrs. Wilkins a sort of saint, Mr. 
Power was an improvement even upon that good soul, 
and if Iam not mistaken this sweet little lady is the 
best and dearest of all. I do hope she will like me.” 

“It is quite right, my dear, and I am most glad to 
see thee; for we need help at this season of the year, 
and have had none for several weeks. Step up to the 
room at the head of the stairs, and lay off thy things. 
Then, if thee is not tired, I will give thee a little job 
with me in the kitchen,” said the old lady with a kindly 
directness which left no room for awkwardness on the 
new-comer’s part. 

Up went Christie, and after a hasty look round a 
room as plain and white and still as a nun’s cell, she 
whisked on a working-apron and ran down again, 
feeling, as she fancied the children did in the fairy tale, 
when they first arrived at the house of the little old 
woman who lived in the wood. 

Mrs. Wilkins’s kitchen was as neat as a room could 
be, wherein six children came and went, but this 
kitchen was tidy with the immaculate order of which 
Shakers and Quakers alone seem to possess the secret, — 


222 WORK. 


a fragrant, shining cleanliness, that made even black 
kettles ornamental and dish-pans objects of interest. 
Nothing burned or boiled over, though the stove was 
full of dinner-pots and skillets. There was no litter or 
hurry, though the baking of cake and pies was going 
on, and when Mrs. Sterling put a pan of apples, and a 
knife into her new assistant’s hands, saying in a tone 
that made the request a favor, “ Will thee kindly pare 
these for me?” Christie wondered what would happen 
if she dropped a seed upon the floor; or did not cut the 
apples into four exact quarters. 

“T never shall suit this dear prim soul,” she thought, 
as her eye went from Puss, sedately perched on one 
small mat, to the dog dozing upon another, and neither 
offering to stir from their own dominions. 

This dainty nicety amused her at first, but she liked 
it, and very soon her thoughts went back to the old 
times when she worked with Aunt Betsey, and learned 
the good old-fashioned arts which now were to prove 
her fitness for this pleasant place. 

Mrs. Sterling saw the shadow that crept into Chris- 
tie’s face, and led the chat to cheerful things, not saying 
much herself, but beguiling the other to talk, and listen- 
ing with an interest that made it easy to go on. 

Mr. Power and the Wilkinses made them friends 
very soon; and in an hour or two Christie was moving 
about the kitchen as if she had already taken posses- 
sion of her new kingdom. 

“Thee likes housework I think,” said Mrs. Sterling, 
as she watched her hang up a towel to dry, and rinse 
her dish-cloth when the cleaning up was done. 

“Oh, yes! if I need not do it with a shiftless Irish girl 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 223 


to drive me distracted by pretending to help. I have 
lived out, and did not find it hard while Lhad my good 
Hepsey. I was second girl, and can set a table in style. 
Shall I try now?” she asked, as the old lady went into 
a little dining-room with fresh napkins in her hand. 

“Yes, but we have no style here. I will show thee 
once, and hereafter it will be thy work, as thy feet are 
younger than mine.” 

A nice old-fashioned table was soon spread, and 
Christie kept smiling at the contrast between this and 
Mrs. Stuart’s. Chubby little pitchers appeared, delicate 
old glass, queer china, and tiny tea-spoons; linen as 
smooth as satin, and a quaint tankard that might have 
come over in the “ May-flower.” 

“ Now, will thee take that pitcher of water to David’s 
room? It is at the top of the house, and may need 
a little dusting. JI have not been able to attend to 
it as I would like since I have been alone,” said Mrs. 
Sterling. 

Rooms usually betray something of the character and 
tastes of their occupants, and Christie paused a moment 
as she entered David’s, to look about her with feminine 
interest. 

It was the attic, and extended the whole length of 
the house. One end was curtained off as a bedroom, 
and she smiled at its austere simplicity. 

A gable in the middle made a sunny recess, where 
were stored bags and boxes of seed, bunches of herbs, 
and shelves full of those tiny pots in which baby plants 
are born and nursed till they can grow alone. 

The west end was evidently the study, and here 
Christie took a good look as she dusted tidily. The 


224 WORK. 


furniture was nothing, only an old sofa, with the horse- 
hair sticking out in tufts here and there; an antique 
secretary; and a table covered with books. As she 
whisked the duster down the front of the ancient piece 
of furniture, one of the doors in the upper half swung 
open, and Christie saw three objects that irresistibly 
riveted her eyes for a moment. A broken fan, a bundle 
of letters tied up with a black ribbon, and a little work- 
basket in which lay a fanciful needle-book with “ Letty ” 
embroidered on it in faded silk. 

“Poor David, that is his little shrine, and I have no 
right to see it,” thought Christie, shutting the door with 
self-reproachful haste. 

At the table she paused again, for books always at- 
tracted her, and here she saw a goodly array whose names 
were like the faces of old friends, because she remem- 
bered them in her father’s library. 

Faust was full of ferns, Shakspeare, of rough sketches 
of the men and women whom he has made immor- 
tal. Saintly Herbert lay side by side with Saint 
Augustine’s confessions. Milton and Montaigne stood 
socially together, and Andersen’s lovely “ Mirchen ” flut- 
tered its pictured leaves in the middle of an open Plato; 
while several books in unknown tongues were half- 
hidden by volumes of Browning, Keats, and Coleridge. 

In the middle of this fine society, slender and trans- 
parent as the spirit of a shape, stood a little vase hold- 
ing one half-opened rose, fresh and fragrant as if just 
gathered. 

Christie smiled as she saw it, and wondered if the 
dear, dead, or false woman had been fond of roses. 

Then her eye went to the mantel-piece, just above 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 225 


the table, and she laughed; for, on it stood three busts, 
idols evidently, but very shabby ones; for Géthe’s nose 
was broken, Schiller’s head cracked visibly, and the 
dust of ages seemed to have settled upon Linneus in 
the middle. On the wall above them hung a curious 
old picture of a monk kneeling in a devout ecstasy, 
while the face of an angel is dimly seen through the 
radiance that floods the cell with divine light. Por- 
traits of Mr. Power and Martin Luther stared thought- 
fully at one another from either side, as if making up 
their minds to shake hands in spite of time and space. 

“Melancholy, learned, and sentimental,” said Christie 
to herself} as she settled David’s character after these 
discoveries. 

The sound of a bell made her hasten down, more 
curious than ever to see if this belief was true. 

“Perhaps thee had better step out and call my son. 
Sometimes he does not hear the bell when he is busy. 
Thee will find my garden-hood and shawl behind the 
door,” said Mrs. Sterling, presently; for punctuality 
was a great virtue in the old lady’s eyes. 

Christie demurely tied on the little pumpkin-hood, 
wrapped the gray shawl about her, and set out to find 
her “master,” as she had a fancy to call this unknown 
David. 

From the hints dropped by Mr. Power, and her late 
discoveries, she had made a hero for herself; a sort of 
melancholy Jaques; sad and pale and stern; retired 
from the world to nurse his wounds in solitude. She 
rather liked this picture; for romance dies hard in a 
woman, and, spite of her experiences, Christie still in- 


dulgé@in dreams and fancies. “It will be so interest- 
10* 7) . 


226 WORK. 


ing to see how he bears his secret sorrow. I am fond 
of woe; but I do hope he won’t be too lackadaisical, for 
I never could abide that sort of blighted being.” 

Thinking thus, she peeped here and there, but saw no 
one in yard or barn, except a workman scraping the 
mould off his boots near the conservatory. 

“This David is among the flowers, I fancy; I will 
just ask, and not bolt in, as he does not know me. 
“Where is Mr. Sterling?” added Christie aloud, as she 
approached. 

The man looked up, and.a smile came into his eyes, 
as he glanced from the old hood to the young face in- 
side. Then he took off his hat, and held out his hand, 
saying with just his mother’s simple directness : 

“J am David; and this is Christie Devon, I know. 
How do you do?” 

“Yes; dinner’s ready,” was all she could reply, for 
the discovery that this was the “master,” nearly took 
her breath away. Not the faintest trace of the melan- 
choly Jaques about him; nothing interesting, romantic, 
pensive, or even stern. Only a broad-shouldered, brown- 
bearded man, with an old hat and coat, trousers tucked 
into his boots, fresh mould on the hand he had given 
her to shake, and the cheeriest voice she had ever 
heard. 

What a blow it was to be sure! Christie actually 
felt vexed with him for disappointing her so, and could 
not recover herself, but stood red and awkward, till, 
with a last scrape of his boots, David said with placid 
brevity : 

“Well, shall we go in?” 

Christie walked rapidly into the house, and by the 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 227 


time she got there the absurdity of her funey struck 
her, and she stifled a laugh in the depths of the little 
pumpkin-hood, as she hung it up. Then, assuming her 
gravest air, she went to give the finishing touches to 
dinner. 

Ten minutes later she received another surprise; for 
David appeared washed, brushed, and in a suit of gray, 
—a personable gentleman, quite unlike the workman 
in the yard. 

Christie gave one look, met a pair of keen yet kind 
eyes with a suppressed laugh in them, and dropped her 
own, to be no more lifted up till dinner was done. 

It was a very quiet meal, for no one said much; and 

it was evidently the custom of the house to eat silently, 
only now and then saying a few friendly words, to show 
that the hearts were social if the tongues were not. 
- On the present occasion this suited Christie; and she 
ate her dinner without making any more discoveries, 
except that the earth-stained hands were very clean 
now, and skilfully supplied her wants before she could 
make them known. 

As they rose from table, Mrs. Sterling said: “ Davy, 
does thee want any help this afternoon ?” 

“T shall be very glad of some in about an hour if 
thee can spare it, mother.” 

“T can, dear.” 

“Do you care for flowers?” asked David, turning to 
Christie, “because if you do not, this will be a very 
trying place for you.” 

“T used to love them dearly ; but I have not had any 
for so long I hardly remember how they look,” an- 
swered Christie with a sigh, as she recalled Rachel’s 


228 WORK. 


roses, dead long ago. “Shy, sick, and sad; poor soul, 
we must lend a hand and cheer her up a bit” thought 
David, as he watched her eyes turn toward the green 
things in the windows with a bright, soft look, he liked 
to see. 

“ Come to the conservatory in an hour, and [’ll show 
you the best part of a ‘ German,” he said, with a nod 
and a smile, as he went away, beginning to whistle like 
a boy when the door was shut behind him. 

“What did he mean?” thought Christie, as she 
helped clear the table, and put every thing in Pimlico 
order. 

She was curious to know, and when Mrs. Sterling 
said: “ Now, my dear, Iam going to take my nap, and 
thee can help David if thee likes,” she was quite ready 
to try the new work. 

She would have been more than woman if she had 
not first slipped upstairs to smooth her hair, put ona 
fresh collar, and a black silk apron with certain effective 
frills and pockets, while a scarlet rigolette replaced the 
hood, and lent a little color to her pale cheeks. 

“JT am a poor ghost of what I was,” she thought; 
“but that’s no matter: few can be pretty, any one can 
be neat, and that is more than ever necessary here.” 

Then she went away to the conservatory, feeling 
rather oppressed with the pity and sympathy, for which 
there was no call, and fervently wishing that David 
would not be so comfortable, for he ate a hearty din- 
ner, laughed four times, and whistled as no heart-broken 
man would dream of doing. 

No one was visible as she went in, and walking slow- 
ly down the green aisle, she gave herself up to the en- 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 229 


joyment of the lovely place. The damp, sweet air 
made summer there, and a group of slender, oriental 
trees whispered in the breath of wind that blew in from 
an open sash. Strange vines and flowers hung overhead ; 
banks of azaleas, ruddy, white, and purple, bloomed 
in one place; roses of every hue turned their lovely 
faces to the sun; ranks of delicate ferns, and heaths 
with their waxen bells, were close by ; glowing gerani- 
ums and stately lilies side by side ; savage-looking scarlet 
flowers with purple hearts, or orange spikes rising from 
leaves mottled with strange colors; dusky passion-flow- 
ers, and gay nasturtiums climbing to the roof. All 
manner of beautiful and curious plants were there; and 
Christie walked among them, as happy as a child who 
finds its playmates again. 

Coming to a bed of pansies she sat down on a rustic 
chair, and, leaning forward, feasted her eyes on these 
her favorites. Her face grew young as she looked, her 
hands touched them with a lingering tenderness as if 
to her they were half human, and her own eyes were 
so busy enjoying the gold and purple spread before 
pends she did not see another pair peering at her (_) 
over'an unneighborly old cactus, all prickles, and queer 
knobs. Presently a voice said at her elbow: 

“You look as if you saw something beside pansies 
there.” 

David spoke so quietly that it did not startle her, and 
she answered before she had time to feel ashamed of 
her fancy. 

“T do; for, ever since I was a child, I always see a 
little face when I look at this flower. Sometimes it is 
a sad one, sometimes it’s merry, often roguish, but al- 


230 WORK. 


ways a dear little face; and when I see so many to- 
gether, it’s like a flock of children, all nodding and smil- 
ing at me at once.” 

“So it is!” and David nodded, and smiled himself, 
as he handed her two or three of the finest, as if it was 
as natural a thing as to put a sprig of mignonette in 
his own button-hole. 

Christie thanked him, and then jumped up, remem- 
bering that she came there to work, not to dream. He 
seemed to understand, and went into a little room near 
by, saying, as he pointed to a heap of gay flowers on 
the table: 

“These are to be made into little bouquets for a 
‘German’ to-night. It is pretty work, and better fitted _ 
for a woman’s fingers than a man’s. This is all you 
have to do, and you can use your taste as to colors.” 

While he spoke David laid a red and white carna- 
tion on a bit of smilax, tied them together, twisted a 
morsel of silver foil about the stems, and laid it before 
Christie as a sample. 

“ Yes, I can do that, and shall like it very much,” she 
said, burying her nose in the mass of sweetness before 
her, and feeling as if her new situation grew pleasanter 
every minute. 

“Tere is the apron my mother uses, that bit of silk 
will soon be spoilt, for the flowers are wet,” and David 
gravely offered her a large checked pinafore. 

Christie could not help laughing as she put it on: 
all this was so different from the imaginary picture she 
had made. She was disappointed, and yet she began 
to feel as if the simple truth was better than the senti- 
mental fiction; and glanced up at David involuntarily 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 231 


to see if there were any traces of interesting woe about 
him. 

But he was looking at her with the steady, straight- 
forward look which she liked so much, yet could not 
meet just yet; and all she saw was that he was smiling 
also with an indulgent expression as if she was a little 
girl whom he was trying to amuse. 

“ Make a few, and I’ll be back directly when I have 
attended to another order,” and he went away thinking 
Christie’s face was very like the pansies they had been 
talking about, — one of the sombre ones with a bright 
touch of gold deep down in the heart, for thin and pale 
as the face was, it lighted up at a kind word, and all 
the sadness vanished out of the anxious eyes when the 
frank laugh came. 

Christie fell to work with a woman’s interest in such 2 
a pleasant task, and soon tied and twisted skilfully, 
exercising all her taste in contrasts, and the pretty 
little conceits flower-lovers can produce. She was so 
interested that presently she began to hum half un- 
consciously, as she was apt to do when happily em- 
ployed: 

* Welcome, maids of honor, 
You do bring 
In the spring, 
And wait upon her. 
She has virgins many, 
Fresh and fair, 


Yet you are 
More sweet than any.” 


There she stopped, for David’s. step drew near, and 
she remembered where she was. ! 
“'The last verse is the best in that little poem. Have 


232 WORK. 


you forgotten it?” he said, pleased and surprised to 
find the new-comer singing Herrick’s lines “ To Violets.” 

“ Almost; my father used to say that when we went 
looking for early violets, and these lovely ones reminded 
me of it,” explained Christie, rather abashed. 


| 


i 


Lie 


! 
i 
iM. 
| \ 
{ LAY 


_ 5 


Davip AND CHRISTIE IN THE GREENHOUSE. 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 233 


As if to put her at ease David added, as he laid an- 
other handful of double-violets on the table: 


“«Y’ are the maiden posies, 

And so graced, 
To be placed 

’Fore damask roses. 

Yet, though thus respected, 
By and by 
Ye do lie, 

Poor girls, neglected.’ 


“T always think of them as pretty, modest maids 
after that, and can’t bear to throw them away, even 
when faded.” 

Christie hoped he did not think her sentimental, and 
changed the conversation by pointing to her work, and 
saying, in a business-like way: 

“ Will these do? I have varied the posies as much 
as possible, so that they may suit all sorts of tastes and 
whims. I never went to a‘German’ myself; but I have 
looked on, and remember hearing the young people say 
the little bouquets didn’t mean any thing, so I tried to 
make these expressive.” 

“ Well, I should think you had succeeded excellently, 
and it is avery pretty fancy. Tell me what some of 
them mean: will you?” 

“You should know better than I, being a florist,” 
said Christie, glad to see he approved of her work. 

“T can grow the flowers, but not read them,” and 
David looked rather depressed by his own ignorance 
of those delicate matters. 

Still with the business-like air, Christie held up one 


234 WORK. 


after another of the little knots, saying soberly, though 
her eyes smiled: 

“This white one might be given to a newly engaged 
girl, as suggestive of the coming bridal. That half- 
blown bud would say a great deal from a lover to his 
idol; and this heliotrope be most encouraging to a 
timid swain. Here is a rosy daisy for some merry little 
damsel; there is a scarlet posy for a soldier; this deli- 
cate azalea and fern for some lovely creature just out; 
and there is a bunch of sober pansies for a spinster, if 
spinsters go to ‘Germans.’ Heath, scentless but pretty, 
would do for many; these Parma violets for one with 
a sorrow; and this curious purple flower with arrow- 
shaped stamens would just suit a handsome, sharp- 
tongued woman, if any partner dared give it to her.” 

David laughed, as his eye went from the flowers to 
Christie’s face, and when she laid down the last breast- 
knot, looking as if she would like the chance of present- 
ing it to some one she knew, he seemed much amused. 

“Tf the beaux and belles at this party have the wit 
to read your posies, my fortune will be made, and you 
will have your hands full supplying compliments, dec- 
larations, rebukes, and criticisms for the fashionable 
butterflies. I wish I could put consolation, hope, and 
submission into my work as easily, but I am afraid I 
can’t,” he added a moment afterward with a changed 
face, as he began to lay the loveliest white flowers into 
a box. 

“ Those are not for a wedding, then?” 

“ For a dead baby; and I can’t seem to find any white 
and sweet enough.” 

“ You know the people?” asked Christie, with the 
sympathetic tone in her voice. 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 235 


“Never saw or heard of them till to-day. Isn’t it 
enough to know that ‘baby’s dead, as the poor man 
said, to make one feel for them?” 

_ “OF course it is; only you seemed so interested in 
arranging the flowers, I naturally thought it was for 
some friend,” Christie answered hastily, for David 
looked half indignant at her question. 

“J want them to look lovely and comforting when 
the mother opens the box, and I don’t seem to have 
the right flowers. Will you give it a touch? women 
have a tender way of doing such things that we can 
never learn” 

“T don’t think I can improve it, unless I add another 
sort of flower that seems appropriate: may I?” 

“Any thing you can find.” 

Christie waited for no more, but ran out of the green- 
house to David’s great surprise, and presently came 
hurrying back with a handful of snow-drops. 

_ “Those are just what I wanted, but I didn’t know 
the little dears were up yet! You shall put them in, 
and I know they will suggest what you hope to these 
poor people,” he said approvingly, as he placed the box 
before her, and stood by watching her adjust the little 
sheaf of pale flowers tied up with a blade of grass. 
She added a frail fern or two, and did give just the 
graceful touch here and there which would speak to 
the mother’s sore heart of the tender thought some one 
had taken for her dead darling. 

_ The box was sent away, and Christie went on with 
her work, but that little task performed together seemed 
to have made them friends; and, while David tied up 
several grand bouquets at the same table, they talked 


‘get me a doll? It’s the pinafore that deceives him. 


236 WORK. 


as if the strangeness was fast melting away from their 
short acquaintance. 7 

Christie’s own manners were so simple that simplicity 
in others always put her at her ease: kindness soon 
banished her reserve, and the desire to show that she 
was grateful for it helped her to please. David’s blunt- 
ness was of such a gentle sort that she soon got used — 
to it, and found it a pleasant contrast to the polite 
insincerity so common. He was as frank and friendly 
as a boy, yet had a certain paternal way with him 
which rather annoyed her at first, and made her feel as 
if he thought her a mere gil, while she was very sure’ 
he could not be but a year or two older than herself. 

“T?d rather he’d be masterful, and order me about,” 
she thought, still rather regretting the “ blighted being ” 
she had not found. 

In spite of this she spent a pleasant afternoon, sitting 
in that sunny place, handling flowers, asking questions 
about them, and getting the sort of answers she liked; 
not dry botanical names and facts, but all the deliontt 
traits, curious habits, and poetical romances of the 
sweet things, as if the speaker knew and loved them as 
friends, not merely valued them as merchandise. 

They had just finished when the great dog came 
bouncing in with a basket in his mouth. i 

“ Mother wants eggs: will you come to the barn and 
get them? Hay is wholesome, and you can feed the~ 
doves if you like,” said David, leading the way with — 
Bran rioting about him. ; 

“Why don’t he offer to put up a swing for me, or 


Never mind: I rather like it after all,” thought Christie; 


3 { 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 237 


but she left the apron behind her, and followed with 
the most dignified air. 

It did not last long, however, for the sights and 
sounds that greeted her, carried her back to the days 
of egg-hunting in Uncle Enos’s big barn; and, before 
she knew it, she was rustling through the hay mows, 
talking to the cow and receiving the attentions of Bran 
with a satisfaction it was impossible to conceal. 

The hens gathered about her feet cocking their 
expectant eyes at her; the doves came circling round 
her head; the cow stared placidly, and the inquisitive 
horse responded affably when she offered him a handful 
of hay. 

“ How tame they all are! I like animals, they are 
so contented and intelligent,” she said, as a plump dove 
lit on her shoulder with an impatient coo. 

“That was Kitty’s pet, she always fed the fowls. 
Would you like to do it?” and David offered a little 
measure of oats. 

“Very much;” and Christie began to scatter the 
grain, wondering who “ Kitty” was. 

As if he saw the wish in her face, David added, 
while he shelled corn for the hens: 

“She was the little girl who was with us last. Her 
father kept her in a factory, and took all her wages, 
barely giving her clothes and food enough to keep her 
alive. The poor child ran away, and was trying to 
hide when Mr. Power found and sent her here to be 
cared for.” 

“ As he did me?” said Christie quickly. 

“ Yes, that’s a way he has.” 

“ A very kind and Christian way. Why didn’t she 
stay ?” 


238 WORK. 


“ Well, it was rather quiet for the lively little thing, 
and rather too near the city, so we got a good place up 
in the country where she could go to school and learn 
housework. The mill had left her no time for these 
things, and at fifteen she was as ignorant as a child.” 

“You must miss her.” 

“T do very much.” 

“Was she pretty?” 

“ She looked like a little rose sometimes,” and David 
smiled to himself as he fed the gray hens. 

Christie immediately made a picture of the “lively 
little thing” with a face “like a rose,” and was uncom- 
fortably conscious that she did not look half as well 
feeding doves as Kitty must have done. 

Just then David handed her the basket, saying in the 
paternal way that half amused, half piqued her: “It 
is getting too chilly for you here: take these in please, 
and I'll bring the milk directly.” 

In spite of herself she smiled, as a sudden vision of 
the elegant Mr. Fletcher, devotedly carrying her book 
or beach-basket, passed through her mind ; then hastened 
to explain the smile, for David lifted his brows inquir- 
ingly, and glanced about him to see what amused her. 

“JT beg your pardon: I’ve lived alone so much that 
it seems a little odd to be told to do things, even if 
they are as easy and pleasant as this.” 

“Tam so used to taking care of people, and direct- 
ing, that I do so without thinking. I won’t if you 
don’t like it,” and he put out his hand to take back the 
basket with a grave, apologetic air. 

“ But I do like it; only it amused me to be treated 
like a little girl again, when I am nearly thirty, and 


Ae ee 


“a I, 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 239 


feel seventy at least, life has been so hard to me 
lately.” 

Her face sobered at the last words, and David’s in- 
stantly grew so pitiful she could not keep her eyes on 
it lest they should fill, so suddenly did the memory of 
past troubles overcome her. 

“T know,” he said in a tone that warmed her heart, 
“TI know, but we are going to try, and make life easier 
for you now, and you must feel that this is home and 
we are friends.” 

“I do!” and Christie flushed with grateful feeling 
and a little shame, as she went in, thinking to hei- 
self: “ How silly I was to say that! I may have spoils 
the simple friendliness that was so pleasant, and have 
made him think me a foolish stuck-up old creature.” 

Whatever he might have thought, David’s manner 
was unchanged when he came in and found her busy 
with the table. 

“It’s pleasant to see thee resting, mother, and every 
thing going on so well,” he said, glancing about the 
room, where the old lady sat, and nodding toward the 
kitchen, where Christie was toasting bread in her neatest 
manner. 

“Yes, Davy, it was about time I had a helper for thy 
sake, at least; and this is a great improvement upon 
heedless Kitty, I am inclined to think.” 

Mrs. Sterling dropped her voice over that last sen- 
tence; but Christie heard it, and was pleased. A mo- 
ment or two later, David came toward her with a glass 
in his hand, saying as if rather doubtful of his recep- 
tion : 

“ New milk is part of the cure: will you try it?” 


240 WORK. 


For the first time, Christie looked straight up in the 
honest eyes that seemed to demand honesty in others, 
and took the glass, answering heartily : 

“Yes, thank you; I drink good health to you, and 
better manners to me.” 

The newly lighted lamp shone full in her face, and 
though it was tethers young nor blooming, it showed 
something better than youth and bloom to one who 
could read the subtle language of character as David 
could. He nodded as he took the glass, and went away 
saying quietly : 

“ We are plain people here, and you won’t find it 
hard to get on with us, I think.” 

But he liked the candid look, and thought about it, 
as he chopped kindlings, whistling with a vigor which 
caused Christie to smile as she strained the milk. 

After tea a spider-legged table was drawn out, toward 
the hearth, where an open fire burned cheerily, and 
puss purred on the rug, with Bran near by. David 
unfolded his newspapers, Mrs. Sterling pinned on her 
knitting-sheath, and Christie sat a moment enjoying 
the comfortable little scene. She sighed without know- 
ing it, and Mrs. Sterling asked quickly : 

“Ts thee tired, my dear?” 

“Oh, no! only happy.” 

“Tam glad of that: I was afraid thee would find it 
dull.” 

“It’s beautiful!” then Christie checked herself, feel- 
ing that these outbursts would not suit such quiet 
people; and, half ashamed of showing how much she 
felt, she added soberly, “If you will give me something 
to do I shall be quite contented.” 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 241 


“« Sewing is not good for thee. If thee likes to knit 
I'll set up a sock for thee to-morrow,” said the old 
lady well pleased at the industrious turn of her new 
handmaid. 

“JT like to darn, and I see some to be done in this 
basket. May I do it?” and Christie laid hold of the 
weekly job which even the best housewives are apt to 
set aside for pleasanter tasks. 

“ As thee likes, my dear. My eyes will not let me 
sew much in the evening, else I should have finished 
that batch to-night. Thee will find the yarn and 
needles in the little bag.” 

So Christie fell to work on gray socks, and neat 
lavender-colored hose, while the old lady knit swiftly, 
and David read aloud. Christie thought she was listen- 
ing to the report of a fine lecture; but her ear only 
caught the words, for her mind wandered away into a 
region of its own, and lived there till her task was done. 
Then she laid the tidy pile in the basket, drew her 
chair to a corner of the hearth, and quietly enjoyed 
herself. 

The cat, feeling sure of a welcome, got up into her 
lap, and went to sleep in a cosy bunch; Bran laid his 
nose across her feet, and blinked at her with sleepy 
good-will, while her eyes wandered round the room, 
from its quaint furniture and the dreaming flowers in 
the windows, to the faces of its occupants, and lingered 
there. 

The plain border of a Quaker cap encircled that 
mild old face, with bands of silver hair parted on a 
forehead marked with many lines. But the eyes were 


clear and sweet; winter roses bloomed in the cheeks, 
11 a 


242 WORK. 


and an exquisite neatness pervaded the small figure, 
from the trim feet on the stool, to the soft shawl folded 
about the shoulders, as only a Quakeress can fold one. 
In Mrs. Sterling, piety and peace made old age lovely, 
and the mere presence of this tranquil soul seemed to 
fill the room with a reposeful charm none could resist. 

The other face possessed no striking comeliness of 
shape or color; but the brown, becoming beard made 
it manly, and the broad arch of a benevolent brow 
added nobility to features otherwise not beautiful, —a 
face plainly expressing resolution and rectitude, in- 
spiring respect as naturally as a certain protective 
kindliness of manner won confidence. Even in repose 
wearing a vigilant look as if some hidden pain or 
passion lay in wait to surprise and conquer the sober 
cheerfulness that softened the lines of the firm-set lips, 
and warmed the glance of the thoughtful eyes. 

Christie fancied she possessed the key to this, and 
longed to know all the story of the cross which Mr. 
Power said David had learned to bear so well. Then 
she began to wonder if they could like and keep her, 
to hope so, and to feel that here at last she was at 
home with friends. But the old sadness crept over her, 
as she remembered how often she had thought this 
before, and how soon the dream ended, the ties were 
broken, and she adrift again. 

“Ah well,” she said within herself, “I won’t think 
of the morrow, but take the good that comes and enjoy 
it while I may. I must not disappoint Rachel, since 
she kept her word so nobly to me. Dear soul, when 
shall I see her again?” 

The thought of Rachel always touched her heart, 


BEGINNING AGAIN. 243 


more now than ever; and, as she leaned back in her 
chair with closed eyes and idle hands, these tender 
memories made her unconscious face most eloquent. 
The eyes peering over the spectacles telegraphed a 
meaning message to the other eyes glancing over the 
paper now and then; and both these friends in deed as 
well as name felt assured that this woman needed all 
the comfort they could give her. But the busy needles 
never stopped their click, and the sonorous voice read 
on without a pause, so Christie never knew what mute 
confidences passed between mother and son, or what 
helpful confessions her traitorous face had made for her. 

The clock struck nine, and these primitive people 
prepared for rest; for their day began at dawn, and 
much wholesome work made sleep a luxury. 

“Davy will tap at thy door as he goes down in the 
morning, and I will soon follow-to show thee about 
matters. Good-night, and good rest, my child.” 

So speaking, the little lady gave Christie a maternal 
kiss; David shook hands; and then she went away, 
wondering why service was so lightened by such little 
kindnesses. 

As she lay in her narrow white bed, with the “pale 
light of stars” filling the quiet, cell-like room, and some 
one playing softly on a flute overhead, she felt as if she 
had left the troublous world behind her, and shutting 
out want, solitude, and despair, had come into some 
safe, secluded spot full of flowers and sunshine, kind 
hearts, and charitable deeds. 


a 


CHAPTER XI. 


IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 


ROM that day a new life began for Christie, a 

happy, quiet, useful life, utterly unlike any of 

the brilliant futures she had planned for herself; yet 

indescribably pleasant to her now, for past experience 

had taught her its worth, and made her ready to 
enjoy it. 

Never had spring seemed so early or so fair, never 
had such a crop of hopeful thoughts and happy feel- 
ings sprung up in_ her heart as now; and nowhere was 
there a brighter face, a blither voice, or more willing 
hands than Christie’s when the apple blossoms came. 

This was what she needed, the protection of a 


home, wholesome cares and duties; and, best of all, 


friends to live and labor for, loving and beloved. Her 
whole soul was in her work now, and as health returned, 
much of the old energy and cheerfulness came with it, 
a little sobered, but more sweet and earnest than ever. 
No task was too hard or humble; no day long enough 
to do all she longed to do; and no sacrifice would have 
seemed too great for those whom she regarded with 
steadily increasing love and gratitude. 

Up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the 


IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 24, 


morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sun- 
rise, set her heart in tune, and gave her Nature’s most 
healing balm. She kept the little house in order, with 
Mrs. Sterling to direct and share the labor so pleasantly, 
that mistress and maid soon felt like mother and 
daughter, and Christie often said she did not care for 
any other wages. 

The house-work of this small family was soon done, 
and then Christie went to tasks that she liked better. 
Much out-of-door life was good for her, and in garden 
and green-house there was plenty of light labor she 
could do. So she grubbed contentedly in the whole- 
some earth, weeding and potting, learning to prune 
and bud, and finding Mrs. Wilkins was quite right in 
her opinion of the sanitary virtues of dirt. 

Trips to town to see the good woman and carry 
country gifts to the little folks; afternoon drives with 
Mrs. Sterling in the old-fashioned chaise, drawn by the 
Roman-nosed horse, and Sunday pilgrimages to church 
to be “righted up” by one of Mr. Power’s stirring ser- 
mons, were among her new pleasures. But, on the 
whole, the evenings were her happiest times: for then 
David read aloud while she worked; she sung to the 
old piano tuned for her use; or, better still, as spring 
came on, they sat in the porch, and talked as people 
only do talk when twilight, veiling the outer world, 
seems to lift the curtains of that inner world where 
minds go exploring, hearts learn to know one another, 
and souls walk together in the cool of the day. 

At such times Christie seemed to catch glimpses of 
another David than the busy, cheerful man appar- 
ently contented with the humdrum duties of an ob- 


~ ae 


ne sewe 


246 WORK. 


scure, laborious life, and the few unexciting pleasures 
afforded by books, music, and much silent thought. 
She sometimes felt with a woman’s instinct that under 
this composed, commonplace existence another life 
went on; for, now and then, in the interest of conver- 
sation, or the involuntary yielding to a confidential 
impulse, a word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an unex- 
pected power and passion, a secret unrest, a bitter 
memory that would not be ignored. 

Only at rare moments did she catch these glimpses, 
and so brief, so indistinct, were they that she half 
believed her own lively fancy created them. She longed 
to know more; but “ David’s trouble” made him sacred 
in her eyes from any prying curiosity, and always after 
one of these twilight betrayals Christie found him so 
like his unromantic self next day, that she laughed and 
said : 

“T never shall outgrow my foolish way of trying to 
make people other than they are. Gods are gone, 
heroes hard to find, and one should be contented with 
good men, even if they do wear old clothes, lead prosaic 
lives, and have no accomplishments but gardening, 
playing the flute, and keeping their temper.” 

She felt the influences of that friendly place at once; 
but for a time she wondered at the natural way in 
which kind things were done, the protective care ex- 
tended over her, and the confiding air with which these 
people treated her. They asked no questions, demanded 
no explanations, seemed unconscious of conferring 
favors, and took her into their life so readily that she 
marvelled, even while she rejoiced, at the good fortune 
which led her there. 


IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 247 


She understood this better when she discovered, what 
Mr. Power had not mentioned, that the little cottage 
was a sort of refuge for many women like herself; a 
half-way house where they could rest and recover them- 
selves after the wrongs, defeats, and weariness that come 
to such in the battle of life. 

With a chivalry older and finer than any Spenser 
sung, Mr. Power befriended these forlorn souls, and 
David was his faithful squire. Whoever knocked at 
that low door was welcomed, warmed, and fed; com- 
forted, and set on their way, cheered and strengthened 
by the sweet good-will that made charity no burden, 
and restored to the more desperate and despairing 
their faith in human nature and God’s love. 

There are many such green spots in this world of 
ours, which often seems so bad that a second Deluge 
could hardly wash it clean again ; and these beneficent, 
unostentatious asylums are the salvation of more 
troubled souls than many a great institution gilded all 
over with the rich bequests of men who find themselves 
too heavily laden to enter in at the narrow gate of 
heaven. | 

Happy the foot-sore, heart-weary traveller who turns 
from the crowded, dusty highway down the green lane 
that leads to these humble inns, where the sign of the 
Good Samaritan is written on the face of whomsoever 
opens to the stranger, and refreshment for soul and 
body is freely given in the name of Him who loved the 
poor. 

Mr. Power came now and then, for his large parish 
left him but little time to visit any but the needy. 
Christie enjoyed these brief visits heartily, for her new 


248 WORK. 


friends soon felt that she was one of them, and cor- 
dially took her into the large circle of workers and 
believers to which they belonged. 

Mr. Power’s heart was truly an orphan asylum, and 
every lonely creature found a welcome there. He 
could rebuke sin sternly, yet comfort and uplift the 
sinner with fatherly compassion ; righteous wrath would 
flash from his eyes at injustice, and contempt sharpen 
his voice as he denounced hypocrisy: yet the eyes 
that lightened would dim with pity for a woman’s 
wrong, a child’s small sorrow; and the voice that 
thundered would whisper consolation like a mother, or 
give counsel with a wisdom books cannot teach. 

He was a Moses in his day and generation, born to 
lead his people out of the bondage of dead supersti- 
tions, and go before them through a Red Sea of perse- 
cution into the larger liberty and love all souls hunger 
for, and many are just beginning to find as they come 
doubting, yet desiring, into the goodly land such pio- 
neers as he have planted in the wilderness. 

He was like a tonic to weak natures and wavering 
wills; and Christie felt a general revival going on within 
herself as her knowledge, honor, and affection for him 
grew. Tis strength seemed to uphold her; his integ- 
rity to rebuke all unworthiness in her own life; and the 
magic of his generous, genial spirit to make the hard 
places smooth, the bitter things sweet, and the world 
seem a happier, honester place than she had ever 
thought it since her father died. 

Mr. Power had been interested in her from the first ; 
had watched her through other eyes, and tried her by 
various unsuspected tests. She stood them well; 


IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 249 


showed her faults as frankly as her virtues, and tried to 
deserve their esteem by copying the excellencies she 
admired in them. 

“She is made of the right stuff, and we must keep 
her among us; for she must not be lost or wasted by 
being left to drift about the world with no ties to make 
her safe and happy. She is doing so well here, let her 
stay till the restless spirit begins to stir again; then 
she shall come to me and learn contentment by seeing \ 
greater troubles than her own.” 

Mr. Power said this one day as he rose to go, after 
sitting an hour with Mrs. Sterling, and hearing from 
her a good report of his new protégée. The young 
people were out at work, and had not been called in to 
see him, for the interview had been a confidential one. 
But as he stood at the gate he saw Christie in the 
strawberry bed, and went toward her, glad to see how 
well and happy she looked. 

Her hat was hanging on her shoulders, and the sun 

/ giving her cheeks a healthy color; she was humming 
to herself like a bee as her fingers flew, and once she 
| paused, shaded her eyes with her hand, and took a long 
‘look at a figure down in the meadow; then she worked on 

/ silent and smiling, —a pleasant creature to see, though 

\ her hair was ruffled by the wind; her gingham gown 

/ pinned up; and her fingers deeply stained with the 
blood of many berries. 

“JT wonder if that means any thing?” thought Mr. 
Power, with a keen glance from the distant man to the 
busy woman close at hand. “It might be a helpful, 
happy thing for both, if poor David only could forget.” 


Ne had time for no more castle-building, for a startled 
11* 


250 WORK. 


robin flew away with a shrill chirp, and Christie looked 
up. 

“ Oh, I’mso glad!” she said, rising quickly. “I was 
picking a special box for you, and now you can have a 
feast beside, just as you like it, fresh from the vines. 
Sit here, please, and [711 hull faster than you can eat.” 

“This 7s luxury!” and Mr. Power sat down on the 
three-legged stool offered him, with a rhubarb leaf on 
his knee which Christie kept supplying with delicious 
mouthfuls. 


Va 


ZZ 
Sep ‘yyy o7 
TCAD WY 
Y 


Mr. PowkER AND CHRISTIE IN THE STRAWBERRY Bep. 


IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 2514 


“ Well, and how goes it? Are we still happy and con- 
tented here?” he asked. 

“J feel asif I had been born again; as if this was 
a new heaven and a new earth, and every thing was 
as it should be,” answered Christie, with a look of per- 
fect satisfaction in her face. 

“That’s a pleasant hearing. Mrs. Sterling has been 
praising you, but I wanted to be sure you were as satis- 
fied as she. And how does David wear ? well, I hope.” 

“Oh, yes, he is very good to me, and is teaching me 
to be a gardener, so that I needn’t kill myself with sew- 
ing any more. Much of this is fine work for women, 
and so healthy. Don’t I look a different creature from 
the ghost that came here three or four months ago?” 
and she turned her face for inspection like a child. 

“ Yes, David is a good gardener. I often send my 
sort of plants here, and he always makes them grow 
and blossom sooner or later,” answered Mr. Power, re- 
garding her like a beneficent genie on a three-legged 
stool. ; 

“ You are the fresh air, and Mrs. Sterling is the quiet 
sunshine that does the work, I fancy. David only digs 
about the roots.” 

“Thank you for my share of the compliment; but 
why say ‘only digs’? That is a most important part 
of the work: I’m afraid you don’t appreciate David.” 

“ Oh, yes, Ido; but he rather aggravates me some- 
times,” said Christie, laughing, as she put a particularly 
big berry in the green plate to atone for her frankness. 

“ Tow 2?” asked Mr. Power, interested in these little 
revelations. 

“ Well, he won’t be ambitious. I try to stir him up, 


a 


252 WORK. 


for he has talents; I’ve found that out: but he won't 
seem to care for any thing but watching over his mother, 
reading his old books, and making flowers bloom double 
when they ought to be single.” 

“There are worse ambitions than those, Christie. I 
know many a man who would be far better employed 
in cherishing a sweet old woman, studying Plato, and 
doubling the beauty of a flower, than in selling princi- 
ples for money, building up a cheap reputation that dies 
with him, or chasing pleasures that turn to ashes in his 
mouth.” 

“Yes, sir; but isn’t it natural for a young man to 
have some personal aim or aspiration to live for? If 
David was a weak or dull man I could understand it; 
but I seem to feel a power, a possibility for something 
higher and better than any thing I see, and this frets 
me. He is so good, I want him to be great also in 
some way.” 

“ A wise man says, ‘The essence of greatness is the 
perception that virtue is enough. JZthink David one 
of the most ambitious men I ever knew, because at 
thirty he has discovered this truth, and taken it to 
heart. Many men can be what the world calls great: 
very few men are what God calls good. This is the 
harder task to choose, yet the only success that. satis- 
fies, the only honor that outlives death. These faith- 
ful lives, whether seen of men or hidden in corners, are 
the salvation of the world, and few of us fail to ac- 
knowledge it in the hours when we are brought close 
to the heart of things, and see a little as God sees.” 

Christie did not speak for a moment: Mr. Power’s 
voice had been so grave, and his words so earnest that 


IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 253 


she could not answer lightly, but sat turning over the 
new thoughts in her mind. Presently she said, in a 
penitent but not quite satisfied tone: 

“ Of course you are right, sir. Ill try not to care for 
the outward and visible signs of these hidden virtues 5 
but I’m afraid I still shall have a hankering for the 
worldly honors that are so valued by most people.” 

“*Success and glory are the children of hard work 
and God’s favor, according to Aéschylus, and you will 
find he was right. David got a heavy blow some years 
ago as I told you, I think; and he took it hard, but it 
did not spoil him: it made a man of him; and, if I am 
not much mistaken, he will yet do something to be 
proud of, though the world may never hear of it.” 

“T hope so!” and Christie’s face brightened at the 
thought. 

“ Nevertheless you look as if you doubted it, O you 
of little faith. Every one has two sides to his nature: 
David has shown you the least interesting one, and 
you judge accordingly. I think he will show you the 
other side some day, —for you are one of the women 
who win confidence without trying,—and then you 
will know the real David. Don’t expect too much, or 
quarrel with the imperfections that make him human ; 
but take him for what he is worth, and help him if you 
can to make his life a brave and good one.” 

“JT will, sir,’ answered Christie so meekly that Mr. 
Power laughed; for this confessional in the strawberry 
bed amused him very much. 

“ You are a hero-worshipper, my dear; and if people 
don’t come up to the mark you are so disappointed that 
you fail to see the fine reality which remains when the 


254 WORK. 


pretty romance ends. Saints walk about the world to, 
day as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and halos 
they now wear” — 

“ Broadcloth and wide-brimmed hats,” added Chris- 
tie, looking up as if she had already found a better 
St. Thomas than any the church ever canonized. 

He thanked her with a smile, and went on with a 
glance toward the meadow. 

“And knights go crusading as gallantly as ever 
against the giants and the dragons, though you don’t 
discover it, because, instead of banner, lance, and shield 
they carry ” — 

“ Bushel-baskets, spades, and sweet-flag for their 
mothers,” put in Christie again, as David came up the 
path with the loam he had been digging. 

Both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment 
without knowing why, as he put down his load, took off 
his hat, and shook hands with his honored guest. 

“ What’s the joke?” he asked, refreshing himself 
with the handful of berries Christie offered him. 

“ Don’t tell,” she whispered, looking dismayed at the 
idea of letting him know what she had said of him. 

But Mr. Power answered tranquilly : 

“ We were talking about coins, and Christie was ex- 
pressing her opinion of one I showed her. The face 
and date she understands; but the motto puzzles her, 
and she has not seen the reverse side yet, so does 
not know its value. She will some day; and then she 
will agree with me, I think, that it is sterling gold.” 

The emphasis on the last words enlightened David: 
his sunburnt cheek reddened, but he only shook his 
head, saying: “ She will find a brass farthing I’m afraid, 


IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 255 


sir,” and began to crumble a handful of loam about the 
roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by 
chance at the foot of the apple-tree. 

“ How did that get there?” asked Christie, with sud- 
den interest in the flower. 

“Tt dropped when I was setting out the others, took 
root, and looked so pretty and comfortable that I left 
it. These waifs sometimes do better than the most 
carefully tended ones: I only dig round them a bit and 
leave them to sun and air.” 

Mr. Power looked at Christie with so much meaning 
in his face that it was her turn to colornow. But with 
feminine perversity she would not own herself mistaken, 
and answered with eyes as full of meaning as his own: 

“T like the single ones best: double-carnations are 
so untidy, all bursting out of the calyx as if the petals 
had quarrelled and could not live together.” 

“The single ones are seldom perfect, and look poor 
and incomplete with little scent or beauty,” said un- 
conscious David propping up the thin-leaved flower, 
that looked like a pale solitary maiden, beside the great 
crimson and white carnations near by, filling the air 
with spicy odor. 

“T suspect you will change your mind by and by, 
Christie, as your taste improves, and you will learn to 
think the double ones the handsomest,” added Mr. 
Power, wondering in his benevolent heart if he would 
ever be the gardener to mix the colors of the two hu- 
man plants before him. 

“TIT must go,” and David shouldered his basket as if 
he felt he might be in the way. 

“ So must I, or they will be waiting for me at the 


256 WORK. 


hospital. Give me a handful of flowers, David: they 
often do the poor souls more good than my prayers or 
preaching.” 

Then they went away, and left Christie sitting in the 
strawberry bed, thinking that David looked less than 
ever like a hero with his blue shirt, rough straw hat, 
and big boots; also wondering if he would ever show 
her his best side, and if she would like it when she 
saw it. 


GHAPTER XI 
CHRISTIE’S GALA. 


()* the fourth of September, Christie woke up, say- 

ing to herself: “It is my birthday, but no one 
knows it, so I shall get no presents. Ah, well, I’m 
too old for that now, I suppose ;” but she sighed as she 
said it, for well she knew one never is too old to be 
remembered and beloved. 

Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Sterling entered, 
carrying what looked very like a pile of snow-flakes in 
her arms. Laying this upon the bed, she kissed Chris- 
tie, saying with a tone and gesture that made the words 
a benediction : 

“A happy birthday, and God bless thee, my daughter!” 

Before Christie could do more than hug both gift and 
giver, a great bouquet came flying in at the open win- 
dow, aimed with such skill that it fell upon the bed, 
while David’s voice called out from below: “A happy 
birthday, Christie, and many of them!” 

“ How sweet, how kind of you, this is! I didn’t dream 
you knew about to-day, and never thought of such a 
beautiful surprise,” cried Christie, touched and charmed 
by this unexpected celebration. 

Q 


258 WORK. 


“ Thee mentioned it once long ago, and we remem- 
bered. They are very humble gifts, my dear; but we 
could not let the day pass without some token of the 
thanks we owe thee for these months of faithful service 
and affectionate companionship.” | 

Christie had no answer to this little address, and was 
about to cry as the only adequate expression of her 
feelings, when a hearty “ Hear! Hear!” from below 
made her laugh, and call out: 

“ You conspirators! how dare you lay plots, and then 
exult over me when I can’t find words to thank you? 
IT always did think you were a set of angels, and now 
I’m quite sure of it.” 

“Thee may be right about Davy, but Zam only a 
prudent old woman, and have taken much pleasure 
in privately knitting this light wrap to wear when thee 
sits in the porch, for the evenings will svon grow chilly. 
My son did not know what to get, and finally decided 
that flowers would suit thee best; so he made a bunch 
of those thee loves, and would toss it in as if he was a 
boy.” 

“TI like that way, and both my presents suit me ex- 
actly,” said Christie, wrapping the fleecy shawl about 
her, and admiring the nosegay in which her quick eye 
saw all her favorites, even to a plumy spray of the 
little wild asters which she loved so much. 

“ Now, child, I will step down, and see about break- 
fast. Take thy time; for this is to be a holiday, and we 
mean to make it a happy one if we can.” 

With that the old lady went away, and Christie soon 
followed, looking very fresh and blithe as she ran down 
smiling behind her great bouquet. David was in the 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 259 


porch, training up the morning-glories that bloomed 
late and lovely in that sheltered spot. He turned as 
she approached, held out his hand, and bent a little as 
if he was moved to add a tenderer greeting. But he 
did not, only held the hand she gave him for a moment, 
as he said with the paternal expression unusually 
visible: 

“T wished you many happy birthdays; and, if you 
go on getting younger every year like this, you will 
surely have them.” 

It was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and 
she liked it, though she shook her head as if disclaim- 
ing it, and answered brightly : 

“T used to think many years would be burdensome, 
and just before I came here I felt as if I could not bear 
another one. But now I like to live, and hope I shall 
a long, long time.” 

“I’m glad of that; and how do you mean to spend 
these long years of yours?” asked David, brushing 
back the lock of hair that was always falling into his 
eyes, as if he wanted to see more clearly the hopeful 
face before him. 

“ In doing what your morning-glories do, — climb up 
as far and as fast as I can before the frost comes,” an- 
swered Christie, looking at the pretty symbols she had 
chosen. 

“ You have got on a good way already then,” began 
David, smiling at her fancy. 

“Oh no, I haven’t!” she said quickly. “I’m only 
about half way up. See here: I’ll tell how it is;” and, 
pointing to the different parts of the flowery wall, she 
added in her earnest way: “I’ve watched these grow, 


260 WORK. 


and had many thoughts about them, as I sit sewing in 
the porch. These variegated ones down low are my 
childish fancies; most of them gone to seed you see. 
These lovely blue ones of all shades are my girlish 
dreams and hopes and plans. Poor things! some are 
dead, some torn by the wind, and only a few pale ones 
left quite perfect. Here you observe they grow sombre 
with a tinge of purple; that means pain and gloom, 
and there is where 1 was when I came here. Now 
they turn from those sad colors to crimson, rose, and 
soft pink. That ’s the happiness and health I found here. 
You and your dear mother planted them, and you see 
how strong and bright they are.” 

She lifted up her hand, and gathering one of the 
great rosy cups offered it to him, as if it were brimful 
of the thanks she could not utter. He comprehended, 
took it with a quiet “Thank you,” and stood looking 
at it for a moment, as if her little compliment pleased 
him very much. 

«“ And these?” he said presently, pointing to the 
delicate violet bells that grew next the crimson ones. 

The color deepened a shade in Christie’s cheek, but 
she went on with no other sign of shyness; for with 
David she always spoke out frankly, because she could 
not help it. 

“ Those mean love to me, not passion: the deep red 
ones half hidden under the leaves mean that. My 
violet flowers are the best and purest love we can 
know: the sort that makes life beautiful and lasts for 
ever. The white ones that come next are tinged with 
that soft color here and there, and they mean holiness. 
I know there will be love in heaven; so, whether I 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 961 


ever find it here or not, I am sure I shall not miss it 
wholly.” 

Then, as if glad to leave the theme that never can 
be touched without reverent emotion by a true woman, 
she added, looking up to where a few spotless blossoms 
shone like silver in the light: 

“ Far away there in the sunshine are my highest 
aspirations. I cannot reach them: but I can look up, 
and see their beauty ; -believe in them, and try to follow 
where they lead; remember that frost comes latest to 
those that bloom the highest; and keep my beautiful 
white flowers as long as I can.” 

“The mush is ready; come to breakfast, children,” 
called Mrs. Sterling, as she crossed the hall with a tea- 
pot in her hand. 

Christie’s face fell, then she exclaimed laughing: 
“That’s always the way; I never take a poetic flight 
but in comes the mush, and spoils it all.” 

“Not a bit; and that’s where women are mistaken. 
Souls and bodies should go on together; and you will 
find that a hearty breakfast won’t spoil the little hymn 
the morning-glories sung;” and David set her a good 
example by eating two bowls of hasty-pudding and 
milk, with the lovely flower in his button-hole. 

“ Now, what are we to do next?” asked Christie, 
when the usual morning work was finished. 

“Jn about ten minutes thee will see, I think, ® one 
swered Mrs. Sterling, glancing at the clock, and smiling 
at the bright expectant look in the younger woman’s 
eyes. 

She did see; for in less than ten minutes the rumble 
of an omnibus was heard, a sound of many voices, and 


262 WORK. 


then the whole Wilkins brood came whooping down 
the lane. It was good to see Ma Wilkins jog ponder- 
ously after in full state and festival array ; her bonnet 
trembling with bows, red roses all over her gown, and 
a parasol of uncommon brilliancy brandished joyfully 
in her hand. It was better still to see her hug Christie, 
when the latter emerged, flushed and breathless, from 
the chaos of arms, legs, and chubby faces in which she 
was lost for several tumultuous moments; and it was 
best of all to see the good woman place her cherished 
“bunnit” in the middle of the parlor table as a choice 
and lovely ornament, administer the family pocket- 
handkerchief all round, and then settle down with a 
hearty : 

“Wal, now, Mis Sterlin’, you’ve no idee how tickled 
we all was when Mr. David came, and told us you was 
goin’ to have a galy here to-day. It was so kind of 
providential, for *Lisha was invited out to a day’s 
pleasurin’, so I could leave jest as wal as not. The 
childern’s ben hankerin’ to come the wust kind, and go 
plummin’ as they did last month, though I told ’em ber- | 
ries was gone weeks ago. I reelly thought I’d never 
get ’em here whole, they trained so in that bus. Wash 
would go on the step, and kep fallin’ off; Gusty’s hat 
blew out a winder; them two bad boys tumbled round 
loose; and dear little Victory set like a lady, only I 
found she’d got both feet in the basket right atop of 
the birthday cake, I made a puppose for Christie.” 

“Tt hasn’t hurt it a bit; there was a cloth over it, 
and I like it all the better for the marks of Totty’s 
little feet, bless ’em!” and Christie cuddled the cul- 
prit with one hand while she revealed the damaged 


CHRISTIE’S GALA. 263 


delicacy with the other, wondering inwardly what evil 
star was always ih the ascendant when Mrs. Wilkins 
made cake. 

“ Now, my dear, you jest go and have a good frolic 
with them childern, I’m a goin’ to git dinner, and you 
a goin’ to play; so we don’t want to see no more of 
you till the bell rings,” said Mrs. Wilkins pinning up 
her gown, and “ shooing” her brood out of the room, 
which they entirely filled. 

Catching up her hat Christie obeyed, feeling as much 
like a child as any of the excited six. The revels 
that followed no pen can justly record, for Goths and 
Vandals on the rampage but feebly describes the youth- 
ful Wilkinses when their spirits effervesced after a 
month’s bottling up in close home quarters. 

David locked the greenhouse door the instant he 
saw them; and pervaded the premises generally like 
a most affable but very watchful policeman, for the ray- 
ages those innocents committed much afflicted him. 
Yet he never had the heart to say a word of reproof, 
when he saw their raptures over dandelions, the relish 
with which they devoured fruit, and the good it did the 
little souls and bodies to enjoy unlimited liberty, green 
grass, and country air, even for a day. 

Christie usually got them into the big meadow as 
soon as possible, and there let them gambol at will; 
while she sat on the broken bough of an apple-tree, 
and watched her flock like an old-fashioned shepherdess. 
To-day she did so; and when the children were happily 
sailing boats, tearing to and fro like wild colts, or dis- 
covering the rustic treasures Nurse Nature lays ready 
to gladden little hearts and hands, Christie sat idly 


264 WORK. 


making a garland of green brakes, and ruddy sumach 
leaves ripened before the early frosts had come. 

David saw her there, and, feeling that he might come 
off guard for a time, went strolling down to lean upon 
the wall, and chat in the friendly fashion that had natu- 
rally grown up between these fellow-workers. She was 
waiting for the new supply of ferns little Adelaide was 
getting for her by the wall; and while she waited she 


\\ 


Ne 


Ny 


A FRIENDLY CHAT. 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 265 


sat resting her cheek upon her hand, and smilirg to 
herself, as if she saw some pleasant picture in the green 
grass at her feet. 

“Now I wonder what she’s thinking about,” said 
Dayid’s voice close by, and Christie straightway an- 
swered : 

“Philip Fletcher.” 

“ And who is he?” asked David, settling his elbow 
in a comfortable niche between the mossy stones, so 
that he could “lean and loaf” at his ease. 

“ The brother of the lady whose children I took care 
of;” and Christie wished she had thought before she 
answered that first question, for in telling her adven- 
tures at different times she had omitted all mention of 
this gentleman. 

“Tell about him, as the children say: your experi- 
ences are always interesting, and you look as if this 
man was uncommonly entertaining in some way,” said 
David, indolently inclined to be amused. 

“ Oh, dear no, not at all entertaining! invalids seldom 
are, and he was sick and lazy, conceited and very cross 
sometimes.” Christie’s heart rather smote her as she said 
this, remembering the last look poor Fletcher gave her. 

“ A nice man to be sure; but I don’t see any thing to 
smile about,” persisted David, who liked reasons for 
things; a masculine trait often very trying to feminine 
minds. ~ 

“ T was thinking of a little quarrel we once had. He 
found out that I had been an actress; for I basely did 
not mention that fact when I took the place, and so got 
properly punished for my deceit. I thought he’d tell 
his sister of course, so I did it myself, and retired from 

12 


266 WORK. 


the situation as much disgusted with Christie Devon as 
you are.” 

“ Perhaps I ought to be, but I don’t find that I am. 
Do you know I think that old Fletcher was a sneak?” 
and David looked as if he would rather like to mention 
his opinion to that gentleman. 

“ He probably thought he was doing his duty to the 
children: few people would approve of an actress for 4 
teacher you know. He had seen me play, and remem- 
bered it all of a sudden, and told me of it: that was the 
way it came about,” said Christie hastily, feeling that 
she must get out of the scrape as soon as possible, or 
she would be driven to tell every thing in justice to Mr, 
Fletcher. 

“T should like to see you act.” 7 

“You a Quaker, and express such a worldly and 
dreadful wish?” cried Christie, much amused, and very 
grateful that his thoughts had taken a new direction. 

“JT ’m not, and never have been. Mother married out 
of the sect, and, though she keeps many of her old ways, 
always left me free to believe what I chose. I wear 
drab because I like it, and say ‘thee’ to her because 
she likes it, and it is pleasant to have a little word all 
our own. I’ve been to theatres, but I don’t care much 
for them. Perhaps I should if I’d had Fletcher's luck 
in seeing you play.” 

“You didn’t lose much: I was not a good actress; 
though now and then when I liked my part I did pretty 
well they said,” answered Christie, modestly. 

“ Why didn’t you go back after the accident?” asked 
David, who had heard that part of the story. 


“JT felt that it was bad for me, and so retired to pri-. 


vate life.” 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 267 


“Do you ever regret it?” 

“Sometimes when the restless fit is on me: but not 
so often now as I used to do; for on the whole I’d 
rather de a woman than act a queen.” 

“ Good!” said David, and then added persuasively : 
“But you will play for me some time: won’t you? I’ve 
a curious desire to see you do it.” 

“Perhaps I'll try,” replied Christie, flattered by his. 
interest, and not unwilling to display her little talent. 

“Who are you making that for? it’s very pretty,” 
asked David, who seemed to be in an inquiring frame 
of mind that day. 

“ Any one who wants it. I only do it for the pleasure: 
I always liked pretty things; but, since I have lived 
among flowers and natural people, I seem to care more 
han ever for beauty of all kinds, and love to make it if I 
san without stopping for any reason but the satisfaction.” 


«“« Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made fer seeing, 
«“<Then beauty is its own excuse for being,’ ” 


observed David, who had a weakness for poetry, and, 
finding she liked his sort, quoted to Christie almost as 
freely as to himself. 

“Exactly, so look at that and enjoy it,” and she 
pointed to the child standing knee-deep: in graceful 
ferns, looking as if she grew there, a living buttercup, 
with her buff frock off at one plump shoulder and her 
bright hair shining in the sun. 

Before David could express his admiration, the little 
picture was spoilt; for Christie called out, “Come, Vic, 
bring me some more pretties!” startling baby so that 
she lost her balance, and disappeared with a muffled 


ede 


268 WORK. 


cry, leaving nothing to be seen but a pair of small con- 
vulsive shoes, soles uppermost, among the brakes. Da- 
vid took a leap, reversed Vic, and then let her compose 
her little feelings by sticking bits of green in all the 
button-holes of his coat, as he sat on the wall while she 
stood beside him in the safe shelter of his arm. 

“You are very like an Englishman,” said Christie, 


/ after watching the pair for a few minutes. 


“ Tlow do you know?” asked David, looking surprised. 

“'There were several in our company, and I found 
them very much alike. Blunt and honest, domestic and 
kind; hard to get at, but true as steel when once won; 
not so brilliant and original as Americans, perhaps, but 
more solid and steadfast. On the whole, I think them 
the manliest men_in the world,” answered Christie, in 
the decided way young people have of expressing thei 
opinions. 

“ You speak as if you had known and studied a great 
variety of men,” said David, feeling that he need not 
resent the comparison she had made. 

“T have, and it has done me good. Women who 
stand alone in the world, and have their own way to 
imake, have a better chance to know men truly than 
those who sit safe at home and only see one side of 


‘mankind. We lose something; but I think we gain a— 


great deal that is more valuable than admiration, flat- 
tery, and the superficial service most men give to our 


. 
| 


sex. Some one says, ‘Companionship teaches men and — 


women to know, judge, and treat one another justly.’ 


I believe it; for we who are compelled to be fellow-— 
workers with men understand and value them more — 


truly than many a belle who has a dozen lovers sigh- 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 269 


ing at her feet. Isee their faults and follies; but I also 
see so much to honor, love, and trust, that I feel as if 
the world was full of brothers. Yes, as a general rule, 
men have been kinder to me than women; and if I 
wanted a staunch friend I’d choose a man, for they 
wear better than women, who ask too much, and cannot 
see that friendship lasts longer if a little respect and 
reserve go with the love and confidence.” 

Christie had spoken soberly, with no thought of flat- 
tery or effect; for the memory of many kindnesses 
bestowed on her by many men, from rough Joe Butter- 
field to Mr. Power, gave warmth and emphasis to her 
words. 

The man sitting on the wall appreciated the compli- 
ment to his sex, and proved that he deserved his share 
of it by taking it exactly as she meant it, and saying 
heartily : 

“T like that, Christie, and wish more women thought 
and spoke as you do.” 

“Tf they had had my experience they would, and not 
be ashamed of it. Iam so old now I can say these things 
and not be misjudged; for even some sensible people 
think this honest sort of fellowship impossible if not im- 
proper. I don’t, and I never shall, so if I can ever do 
any thing for you, David, forget that Iam a woman and 
tell me as freely as if I was a younger brother.” 

“T wish you were!” 

“So do I; you’d make a splendid elder brother.” 

“ No, a very bad one.” 

There was a sudden sharpness in David’s voice that 
jarred on Christie’s ear and made her look up quickly. 
She only caught a glimpse of his face, and saw that it 


270 WORK. 


was strangely troubled, as he swung himself over the 
wall with little Vic on his arm and went toward the 
house, saying abruptly : 

“ Baby ’s sleepy: she must go in.” 

Christie sat some time longer, wondering what she 
had said to disturb him, and when the bell rang went 
in still perplexed. But David looked as usual, and the 
only trace of disquiet was an occasional hasty shaking 
back of the troublesome lock, and a slight knitting of 
the brows; two tokens, as she had learned to know, 
of impatience or pain. 

She was soon so absorbed in feeding the children, 
hungry and clamorous as young birds for their food, 
that she forgot every thing else. When dinner was 
done and cleared away, she devoted herself to Mrs. 
Wilkins for an hour or two, while Mrs. Sterling took 
her nap, the infants played riotously in the lane, and 
David was busy with orders. 

The arrival of Mr. Power drew every one to the 
porch to welcome him. As he handed Christie a book, 
he asked with a significant smile : 

“Have you found him yet?” 

She glanced at the title of the new gift, read “Heroes 
and Hero-worship,” and answered merrily : 

“ No, sir, but I’m looking hard.” 

“ Success to your search,” and Mr. Power turned to 
greet David, who approached. 

“ Now, what shall we play?” asked Christie, as the 
children gathered about her demanding to be amused. 

George Washington suggested leap-frog, and the 
others added equally impracticable requests; but Mrs. 
Wilkins settled the matter by saying: 


Ld 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 271 


“Let ’s have some play-actin’, Christie. That used 
to tickle the children amazin’ly, and I was never tired 
of hearin’ them pieces, specially the solemn ones.” 

“Yes, yes! do the funny girl with the baby, and the 
old woman, and the lady that took pison and had fits!” 
shouted the children, charmed with the idea. 

Christie felt ready for any thing just then, and gave 
them Tilly Slowboy, Miss Miggs, and Mrs. Gummage, 
in her best style, while the young folks rolled on the 
grass in ecstasies, and Mrs. Wilkins laughed till she 
cried. 

“ Now a touch of tragedy!” said Mr. Power, who sat 
under the elm, with David leaning on the back of his 
chair, both applauding heartily. 

“ You insatiable people! do you expect me to give 
you low comedy and heavy tragedy all alone? I’m 
equal to melodrama I think, and I[’ll give you Miss St. 
Clair as Juliet, if you wait a moment.” 

Christie stepped into the house, and soon reappeared 
with a white table-cloth draped about her, two dishev- 
elled locks of hair on her shoulders, and the vinegar 
cruet in her hand, that being the first bottle she could 
find. She meant to burlesque the poison scene, and 
began in the usual ranting way; but she soon forgot St. 
Clair in poor Juliet, and did it as she had often longed 
to do it, with all the power and passion she possessed. 
Very faulty was her rendering, but the earnestness she 
_ put into it made it most effective to her uncritical audi- 
ence, who “brought down the house,” when she fell 
upon the grass with her best stage drop, and lay there 
getting her breath after the mouthful of vinegar she 
had taken in the excitement of the moment. 


272 WORK. 


She was up again directly, and, inspired by this 
superb success, ran in and presently reappeared as Lady 
Macbeth with Mrs. Wilkins’s scarlet shawl for royal 
robes, and the leafy chaplet of the morning for a crown. 
She took the stage with some difficulty, for the uneven- 
ness of the turf impaired the majesty of her tragic 
stride, and fixing her eyes on an invisible Thane (who 
cut his part shamefully, and spoke in the gruffest of 
gruff voices) she gave them the dagger scene. 

David as the orchestra, had been performing a drum 
solo on the back of a chair with two of the corn-cobs 
Victoria had been building houses with; but, when 
Lady Macbeth said, “Give me the daggers,” Christie 
plucked the cobs suddenly from his hands, looking so 
fiercely scornful, and lowering upon him so wrathfully 
with her corked brows that he ejaculated an involun- 
tary, “ Bless me!” as he stepped back quite daunted. 

Being in the spirit of her part, Christie closed with 
the sleep-walking scene, using the table-cloth again, 
while a towel composed the tragic nightcap of her 
ladyship. This was an imitation, and having a fine 
model and being a good mimic, she did well; for the 
children sat staring with round eyes, the gentlemen 
watched the woful face and gestures intently, and 
Mrs. Wilkins took a long breath at the end, exclaim- 
ing: “I never did see the beat of that for gastliness! 
My sister Clarissy used to walk in her sleep, but she 
warn’t half so kind of dreadful.” 

“Tf she had had the murder of a few friends on her 
conscience, I dare say she would have been,” said Chris- 
tie, going in to make herself tidy. 

“ Well, how do you like her as an actress?” asked 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 273 


Mr. Power of David, who stood looking, as if he still 
saw and heard the haunted lady. 

“Very much; but better as a woman. I’d no idea 
she had it in her,” answered David, in a wonder-stricken 
tone. 

“Plenty of tragedy and comedy in all of us,” began 
Mr. Power; but David said hastily: 

“Yes, but few of us have passion and imagination 
enough to act Shakspeare in that way.” 

“ Very true: Christie herself could not give a whole 
character in that style, and would not think of trying.” 

“ J think she could; and I’d like to see her try it,” 
said David, much impressed by the dramatic ability 
which Christie’s usual quietude had most effectually 
hidden. 

He was still thinking about it, when she came out 
again. Mr. Power beckoned to her, saying, as she 
came and stood before him, flushed and kindled with 
her efforts: ‘ 

“ Now, you must give me a bit from the ‘Merchant of 
Venice.’ Portia is a favorite character of mine, and I 
want to see if you can do any thing with it.” 

“No, sir, I cannot. I used to study it, but it was 
too sober to suit me. Iam nota judicial woman, so I 
gave it up,” answered Christie, much flattered by his 
request, and amused at the respectful way in which 
David looked at her. Then, as if it just occurred to 
her, she added, “I remember one little speech that I 
can say to you, sir, with great truth, and I will, since 
you like that play.” 

Still standing before him, she bent her head a little, 


and with a graceful gesture of the hands, as if offering 
12* R 


274 WORK. 


something, she delivered with heartfelt emphasis the 
first part of Portia’s pretty speech to her fortunate 
suitor : 


‘You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am: though, for myself alone, 
I would not be ambitious in my wish, 
To wish myself much better; yet for you, 
I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich; 
That, only to stand high in your account, 
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account: but the full sum of me 
Is sum of something; which, to term in gross, 
Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d :— 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn; happier than this, 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all, is that her willing spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed, 
As from her lord, her governor, her king.” 


Dayid applauded vigorously ; but Mr. Power rose 
silently, looking both touched and surprised; and, draw- 
ing Christie’s hand through his arm, led her away into 
the garden for one of the quiet talks that were so much 
to her. | 

» When they returned, the Wilkinses were preparing 
to depart; and, after repeated leave-takings, finally 
got under way, were packed into the omnibus, and 
rumbled off with hats, hands, and handkerchiefs wav- 
ing from every window. Mr. Power soon followed, 
and peace returned to the little house in the lane. 

Later in the evening, when Mrs. Sterling was en- 
gaged with a neighbor, who had come to confide some 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 275 


affliction to the good lady, Christie went into the porch, 
and found David sitting on the step, enjoying the mel- 
low moonlight and the balmy air. As he did not speak, 
she sat down silently, folded her hands in her lap, and 
began to enjoy the beauty of the night in her own way. 
Presently she became conscious that David’s eyes had 
turned from the moon to her own face. He sat in the 
shade, she in the light, and he was looking at her with 
the new expression which amused her. 

“Well, what is it? You look as if you never saw 
me before,” she said, smiling. 

“J feel as if I never had,” he answered, still regard- 
ing her as if she had been a picture. 

“ What do I look like?” 

“« A peaceful, pious nun, just now.” 

“Oh! that is owing to my pretty shawl. I put it on 
in honor of the day, though it is a trifle warm, I con- 
fess.” And Christie stroked the soft folds about her 
shoulders, and settled the corner that lay lightly on her 
hair. “I do feel peaceful to-night, but not pious. I 
am afraid I never shall do that,” she added soberly. 

“Why not ?” 

“Well, it does not seem to be my nature, and I 
don’t know how to change it. I want something to 
keep me steady, but I can’t find it. So I whiffle about 
this way and that, and sometimes think I ama most , 
degenerate creature.” 

“That is only human nature, so don’t be troubled. 
We are all compasses pointing due north. We get 
shaken often, and the needle varies in spite of us; but 
the minute we are quiet, it points right, and we have 
only to follow it.” 


>. 


976 WORK. 


“ The keeping quiet is just what I cannot do. Your 
mother shows me how lovely it is, and I try to imitate 
it; but this restless soul of mine will ask questions and 
doubt and fear, and worry me in many ways. What 
shall I do to keep it still?” asked Christie, smiling, yet 
earnest. 

“Let it alone: you cannot force these things, and 
the best way is to wait till the attraction is strong 
enough to keep the needle steady. Some people get 
their ballast slowly, some don’t need much, and some 
have to work hard for theirs.” 

“Did you?” asked Christie ; for David’s voice fell a 
little, as he uttered the last words. 

“T have not got much yet.” 

“J think you have. Why, David, you are always 
cheerful and contented, good and generous. If that 
is not true piety, what is?” 

“You are very much deceived, and I am sorry for 
it,’ said David, with the impatient gesture of the head, 
and a troubled look. : 

“Prove it!” And Christie looked at him with such 
sincere respect and regard, that his honest nature 
would not let him accept it, though it gratified him 
much. 

He made no answer for a minute. Then he said 
slowly, as if feeling a modest man’s hesitation to speak 
of himself, yet urged to it by some irresistible im- 
pulse: 

“I will prove it if you won’t mind the unavoidable 
egotism ; for I cannot let you think me so much better 
than I am. Outwardly I seem to you ‘cheerful, con- 
tented, generous, and good.’ In reality I am sad, dis- 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. gig 


satisfied, bad, and selfish: see if I’m not. I often tire 
of this quiet life, hate my work, and long to break 
away, and follow my own wild and wilful impulses, no 
matter where they lead. Nothing keeps me at such 
times but my mother and God’s patience.” 

David began quietly ; but the latter part of this con- 
fession was made with a sudden impetuosity that startled 
Christie, so utterly unlike his usual self-control was it. 
She could only look at him with the surprise she felt. 
His face was in the shadow; but she saw that it was 
flushed, his eyes excited, and in his voice she heard an 
undertone that made it sternly self-accusing. 

“J am not a hypocrite,” he went on rapidly, as if 
driven to speak in spite of himself. “I try to be what I 
seem, but it is too hard sometimes and I despair. Espe- 
cially hard is it to feel that I have learned to feign 
happiness so well that others are entirely deceived. Mr. 
Power and mother know me as I am: other friends I 
have not, unless you will let me call you one. Whether 
you do or not after this, I respect you too much to let 
you delude yourself about my virtues, so I tell you the 
truth and abide the consequences.” 

He looked up at her as he paused, with a curious 
mixture of pride and humility in his face, and squared 
his broad shoulders as if he had thrown off a burden 
that had much oppressed him. 

Christie offered him her hand, saying in a tone that 
did his heart good: “The consequences are that I 
respect, admire, and trust you more than ever, and feel 
proud to be your friend.” 

David gave the hand a strong and grateful pressure, 
said, “Thank you,” in a moved tone, and then leaned 


278 WORK. 


back into the shadow, as if trying to recover from this 
unusual burst of confidence, won from him by the soft 
magic of time, place, and companionship. 

Fearing he would regret the glimpse he had given 
her, and anxious to show how much she liked it, Chris- 
tie talked on to give him time to regain composure. 

“JT always thought in reading the lives of saints or 
good men of any time, that their struggles were the 
most interesting and helpful things recorded. Human 
imperfection only seems to make real piety more possi- 
ble, and to me more beautiful; for where others have 
conquered I can conquer, having suffered as they suffer, 
and seen their hard-won success. That is the sort of 
religion I want; something to hold by, live in, and 
enjoy, if I can only get it.” 

“T know you will.” He said it heartily, and seemed 
quite calm again ; so Christie obeyed the instinct which 
told her that questions would be good for David, and 
that he was in the mood for answering them. 

“ May I ask you something,” she began alittle timidly. 

“ Any thing, Christie,” he answered instantly. 

\ “That is arash promise: I am a woman, and there- 
.\ fore curious; what shall you do if I take advantage of 
\ “the privilege ?” 

“Try and see.” 

“JT will be discreet, and only ask one thing,” she 
replied, charmed with her success. “ You said just now 
that you had learned to feign happiness. I wish you 
would tell me how you do it, for it is such an excellent 
imitation I shall be quite content with it till I can learn 
the genuine thing.” 

David fingered the troublesome forelock thought- 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 279 


fully for a moment, then said, with something of the 
former impetuosity coming back into his voice and 
manner : 

“T will tell you all about it; that’s the best way: I 
know I shall some day because I can’t help it; so I may 
as well have done with it now, since I have begun. It 
is not interesting, mind you, — only a grim little history 
of one man’s fight with the world, the flesh, and the 
devil: will you have it?” 

“Oh, yes!” answered Christie, so eagerly that David 
laughed, in spite of the bitter memories stirring at his 
heart. 

“So like a woman, always ready to_hear_and_forgive 
sinners,” he said, then took a long breath, and added 
rapidly : | 

“J ll put it in as few words as possible and much 
good may it do you. Some years ago I was desperately 
miserable ; never mind why: I dare say I shall tell you 
all about it some day if I go on at this rate. Well, » 
being miserable, as I say, every thing looked black and 
bad to me: I hated all men, distrusted all women, 
doubted the existence of God, and was a forlorn wretch 
generally. Why I did not go to the devil I can’t say: 
I did start once or twice; but the thought of that dear 
old woman in there sitting all alone and waiting for me 
dragged me back, and kept me here till the first reck- 
lessness was over. People talk about duty being sweet; 
I have not found it so, but there it was: I should have 
been a brute to shirk it; so I took it up, and held on 
desperately till it grew bearable.” 

“It has grown sweet now, David, I am sure,” said 
Christie, very low. 


280 WORK. 


“No, not yet,” he answered with the stern honesty 
that would not let him deceive himself or others, cost 
what it might to be true. “There is a certain solid sat- 
isfaction in it that I did not use to find. It is not a 
mere dogged persistence now, as it once was, and that 
is a step towards loving it perhaps.” 

He spoke half to himself, and sat leaning his head 
on both hands propped on his knees, looking down as 
if the weight of the old trouble bent his shoulders 
again. 

“ What more, David?” said Christie. 

“Only this. When I found I had got to live, and 
live manfully, I said to myself, ‘I must have help or I 
cannot do it’ To no living soul could I tell my grief, 
not even to my mother, for she had her own to bear: 
no human being could help me, yet I must have help 
or give up shamefully. Then I did what others do 
when all else fails to sustain them; I turned to God: 
not humbly, not devoutly or trustfully, but doubtfully, 
bitterly, and rebelliously; for I said in my despairing 
heart, ‘If there 7s a God, let Him help me, and I will 
believe’ He did help me, and I- kept my word.” 

“ Oh, David, how ?” whispered Christie after a mo- 
ment’s silence, for the last words were solemn in their 
earnestness. 

“ The help did not come at once. No miracle answered 
me, and I thought my cry had not been heard. But it 
had, and slowly something like submission came to me. 
It was not cheerful nor pious: it was only a dumb, sad 
sort of patience without hope or faith. It was better 
than desperation; so I accepted it, and bore the inevi- 
table as well as I could. Presently, courage seemed to 


CHRISTIE'S GALA. 281 


spring up again : I was ashamed to be beaten in the first 
battle, and some sort of blind instinct made me long to 
break away from the past and begin again. My father 
was dead; mother left all to me, and followed where I 
led. I sold the old place, bought this, and, shutting 
out the world as much as I could, I fell to work 
as if my life depended on it. That was five or six 
years ago: and for a long time I delved away without 
interest or pleasure, merely as a safety-valve for my 
energies, and a means of living; for I gave up all my 
earlier hopes and plans when the trouble came. 

“JT did not love my work; but it was good for me, 
and helped cure my sick soul. I never guessed why I felt 
better, but dug on with indifference first, then felt pride 
in my garden, then interest in the plants I tended, and 
by and by I saw what they had done for me, and loved 
them like true friends.” 

A broad woodbine leaf had been fluttering against 
David’s head, as he leaned on the slender pillar of the 
porch where it grew. Now, as if involuntarily, he laid 
his cheek against it with a caressing gesture, and sat 
looking over the garden lying dewy and still in the 
moonlight, with the grateful look of a man who has 
- learned the healing miracles of Nature and how near 
she is to God. 

“ Mr. Power helped you: didn’t he?” said Christie, 
longing to hear more. 

“So much! I never can tell you what he was to me, 
nor how I thank him. To him, and to my work I owe 
the little I have won in the way of strength and com- 
fort after years of effort. I see now the compensation 
that comes out of trouble, the lovely possibilities that 


282 WORK. 


exist for all of us, and the infinite patience of God, 
which is to me one of the greatest of His divine attri- 
butes. I have only got so far, but things grow easier as 
one goes on; and if I keep tugging I may yet de the 
cheerful, contented man I seem. That is all, Christie, 
and a longer story than I meant to tell.” 

“Not long enough: some time you will tell me more 
perhaps, since you have once begun. It seems quite 
natural now, and I am so pleased and honored by your 
confidence. But I cannot help wondering what made 
you do it all at once,” said Christie presently, after they 
had listened to a whippoorwill, and watched the flight 
of a downy owl. 

“TI do not think I quite know myself, unless it was 
because I have been on my good behavior since you 
came, and, being a humbug, as I tell you, was forced 
to unmask in spite of myself. There are limits to 
human endurance, and the proudest man longs to 
unpack his woes before a sympathizing friend now 
and then. I have been longing to do this for some 
time; but I never like to disturb mother’s peace, or 
take Mr. Power from those who need him more. So 
to-day, when you so sweetly offered to help me if 
you could, it quite went to my heart, and seemed so 
friendly and comfortable, I could not resist trying it to- 
night, when you began about my imaginary virtues. 
That is the truth, I believe: now, what shall we do 
about it?” 

“ Just go on, and do it again whenever you feel like 
it. I know what loneliness is, and how telling worries 
often cures them. I meant every word I said this 
morning, and will prove it by doing any thing in the 


CHRISTIE’S GALA. 283 


world I can for you. Believe this, and Jet me be your 
friend.” 

They had risen, as a stir within told them the guest 
was going; and as Christie spoke she was looking up 
with the moonlight full upon her face. 

If there had been any hidden purpose in her mind, 
any false sentiment, or trace of coquetry in her manner, 
it would have spoiled that hearty little speech of hers. 

But in her heart was nothing but a sincere desire to 
prove gratitude and offer sympathy; in her manner 
the gentle frankness of a woman speaking to a brother 3 
and in her face the earnestness of one who felt the 
value of friendship, and did not ask or give it lightly. 

“J will,’ was David’s emphatic answer, and then, as 
if to seal the bargain, he stooped down, and gravely 
kissed her on the forehead. 

Christie was a little startled, but neither offended nor 
confused; for there was no love in that quiet kiss, — only 
respect, affection, and much gratitude; an involuntary 
demonstration from the lonely man to the true-hearted 
woman who had dared to come and comfort him. 

Out trotted neighbor Miller, and that was the end of 
confidences in the porch; but David played melodiously 
on, his flute that night, and Christie fell asleep saying 
happily to herself: 

“Now we are all right, friends for ever, and every 
thing will go beautifully.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


WAKING UP. 


KITTY. 


VERY thing did “go beautifully” for a time; 
so much so, that Christie began to think she 
really had “ got religion.” A delightful peace pervaded 
her soul, a new interest made the dullest task agreea- 
ble, and life grew so inexpressibly sweet that she felt as 
if she could forgive all her enemies, love her friends 
more than ever, and do any thing great, good, or 
glorious. 

She had known such moods before, but they had 
never lasted long, and were not so intense as this; 
therefore, she was sure some blessed power had. come 
to uphold and cheer her. She sang like a lark as she 


a 


) 


WAKING UP. 285 


swept and dusted; thought high and happy thoughts 
among the pots and kettles, and, when she sat sewing, 
smiled unconsciously as if some deep satisfaction made 
sunshine from within. Heart and soul seemed to wake 
up and rejoice as naturally and beautifully as flowers in 
the spring. A soft brightness shone in her eyes, a 
fuller tone sounded in her voice, and her face grew 
young and blooming with the happiness that trans- 
fizures all it touches. / 

“ Christie’s growing handsome,” David would say 
to his mother, as if she was a flower in which he took 
pride. 

“ Thee is a good gardener, Davy,” the old lady would 
reply, and when he was busy would watch him with a 
tender sort of anxiety, as if to discover a like change in 
him. 

But no alteration appeared, except more cheerfulness 
and less silence; for now there was no need to hide his 
real self, and all the social virtues in him came out 
delightfully after their long solitude. 

In her present uplifted state, Christie could no more 
help regarding David as a martyr and admiring him 
for it, than she could help mixing sentiment with her 
sympathy. By the light of the late confessions, his life 
and character looked very different to her now. His 
apparent contentment was resignation ; his cheerfulness, 
a manly contempt for complaint; his reserve, the 
modest reticence of one who, having done a hard duty 
well, desires no praise for it. Like all enthusiastic per- 
sonsj Christie had a hearty admiration for self-sacrifice 
and self-control ; and, while she learned to see David’s 
virtues, she also exaggerated them, and could not do 


-_ 


286 WORK. 


enough to show the daily increasing esteem and respect 
she felt for him, and to atone for the injustice she once 
did him. 

She grubbed in the garden and green-house, and 
learned hard botanical names that she might be able to 
talk intelligently upon subjects that interested her com- 
rade. Then, as autumn ended out-of-door work, she 
tried to make home more comfortable and attractive 
than ever. 

David’s room was her especial care ; for now to her 
there was something pathetic in the place and its poor 
furnishing. He had fought many a silent battle there; 
won many a secret victory; and tried to cheer his soli- 
tude with the best thoughts the minds of the bravest, 
wisest men could give.him. 

She did not smile at the dilapidated idols now, but 
touched them tenderly, and let no dust obscure their 
well-beloved faces. She set the books in order daily, 
taking many a sip of refreshment from them by the 
way, and respectfully regarded those in unknown 
tongues, full of admiration for David’s learning. She 
covered the irruptive sofa neatly; saw that the little 
vase was always clear and freshly filled; cared for the 
nursery in the gable-window; and preserved an exqui- 
site neatness everywhere, which delighted the soul of the 
room’s order-loving occupant. 

She also mai! alas, for Aim FO Fe the dishes 
David loved, and Tiked to sée-hini enjoy them with the 
appetite which once had shocked her so. She watched 
over his buttons with a vigilance that would have 
softened the heart of the crustiest bachelor: she even 
gave herself the complexion of a lemon by wearing 


WAKING UP. 287 


blue, because David liked the pretty contrast with his 
mother’s drabs. 

After recording that last fact, it is unnecessary to ex- 
plain what was the matter with Christie. She honestly 
thought she had got religion; but it was piety’s twin- 
sister, who produced this wonderful revival in her soul; 
and though she began in all good faith she presently 
discovered that she was 


“Not the first maiden 
Who came but for friendship, 
And took away love.” 


After the birthnight confessions, David found it 
easier to go on with the humdrum life he had chosen 
from a sense of duty; for now he felt as if he had not 
only a fellow-worker, but a comrade and friend who un- 
derstood, sympathized with, and encouraged him by an 
interest and good-will inexpressibly comfortable and 
inspiring. Nothing disturbed the charm of the new 
league in those early days; for Christie was thoroughly 
simple and sincere, and did her womanly work with no 
thought of reward or love or admiration. 

David saw this, and felt it more attractive than any 
gift of beauty or fascination of manner would have 
been. He had no desire to be a lover, having forbidden 
himself that hope; but he found it so easy and pleasant 
to be a friend that he reproached himself for not trying 
it before; and explained his neglect by the fact that 
Christie was not an ordinary woman, since none of all 
the many he had known and helped, had ever been 
any thing to him but objects of pity and protection. 

Mrs. Sterling saw these changes with her wise, 


288 WORK. 


motherly eyes, but said nothing; for she influenced 
others by the silent power of character. Speaking 
little, and unusually gifted with the meditative habits 
of age, she seemed to live in a more peaceful world 
than this. As George MacDonald somewhere says, 
“Her soul seemed to sit apart in a sunny little room, 
safe from dust and noise, serenely regarding passers-by 
through the clear muslin curtains of her window.” 

Yet, she was neither cold nor careless, stern nor sel- 
fish, but ready to share all the joys and sorrows of 
those about her; and when advice was asked she gave 
it gladly. Christie had won her heart long ago, and 
now was as devoted as a daughter to her; lightening 
her cares so skilfully that many of them slipped natu- 
rally on to the young shoulders, and left the old lady 
much time for rest, or the lighter tasks fitted for feeble 
hands. Christie often called her “Mother,” and felt 
herself rewarded for the hardest, humblest job she ever 
did when the sweet old voice said gratefully, “I thank 
thee, daughter.” 

Things were in this prosperous, not to s say paradi- 
siacal, state, when one member of the family began to 

make discoverie’ of an alarming nature. The first was 
that the , Sunday pilgrimages to Sine ‘ch_were seasons of 
great refreshment to soul and body when David went 
also, and utter failures if he did not. Next, that the 
restless ambitions of all sorts were quite gone; for now 
Christie’s mission seemed to be sitting in a quiet corner 
and making shirts in the most exquisite manner, while 
thinking about — well, say botany, or any kindred sub- 
ject. [ Thirdly, that home was woman’s sphere after all, 
and the perfect roasting of beef, brewing of tea, and 


WAKING UP. 289 


concocting of delectable puddings, an end worth living 
for if masculine commendation rewarded the labor. 

Fourthly, and worst of all, she discovered that she 
was not satisfied with half confidences, and quite pined 
to know all about “ David’s trouble.” The little needle- 
book with the faded “Letty” on it haunted her; and 
when, after a pleasant evening below, she heard him 
pace his room for hours, or play melancholy airs upon 
the flute, she was jealous of that unknown woman who 
had such power to disturb his peace, and felt a strong 
desire to smash the musical confidante into whose re- 
sponsive breast he poured his woe. 

At this point Christie paused; and, after evading any 
explanation of these phenomena in the most skilful 
manner for a time, suddenly faced the fact, saying to 
herself with great candor and decision: 

“]T know what all this means: I’m beginning to 
like David more than is good for me. I see this clearly, 
and won’t dodge any longer, but put a stop to it at 
once. Of course I ean if I choose, and now is the time 
to do it; for I understand myself perfectly, and if I 
reach a certain point it is all over with me. That 
point I will not reach: David’s heart is in that Letty’s 
grave, and he only cares for me as a friend. I promised 
to be one to him, and [ll keep my word like an honest 
woman. It may not be easy; but all the sacrifices 
shall not be his, and I won’t be a fool.” 

With praiseworthy resolution Christie set about the 
reformation without delay; not an easy task and one 
that taxed all her wit and wisdom to execute without 
betraying the motive for it. She decided that Mrs. 


Sterling must not be left alone on Sunday, so the young 
13 8 


290 WORK. 


people took turns to go to church, and such dismal trips 
Christie had never known; for all her Sundays were bad 
weather, and Mr. Power seemed to hit on unusually 
uninteresting texts. 

She talked while she sewed instead of indulging in 
dangerous thoughts, and Mrs. Sterling was surprised 
and entertained by this new loquacity. In the evening 
she read and studied with a diligence that amazed and 
rather disgusted David; since she kept all her lively 
chat for his mother, and pored over her books when he 
wanted her for other things. 

“I’m trying to brighten up my wits,” she said, and 
went on trying to stifle her affections. 

But though “the absurdity,” as she called the new 
revelation, was stopped externally, it continued with 
redoubled vigor internally. Each night she said, “ this 
must be conquered,” yet each morning it rose fair and 
strong to make the light and beauty of her day, and 
conquer her again. She did her best and bravest, but 
was forced at last to own that she could not “puta 
stop to it,” because she had already reached the point 
where “it was all over with her.” 

Just at this critical moment an event occurred which 
completed Christie’s defeat, and made her feel that her 
only safety lay in flight. 

One evening she sat studying ferns, and heroically 
saying over and over, “ Andiantum, Aspidium, and 
Asplenium, Trichomanes,” while longing to go and talk 
delightfully to David, who sat musing by the fire. . 

“T can’t go on so much longer,” she thought despair- 
ingly. “Polypodium aureum, a native of Florida,” is 
all very interesting in its place; but it doesn’t help me 


WAKING UP. 291 


to gain self-control a bit, and I shall disgrace myself 
if something doesn’t happen very soon.” 

Something did happen almost instantly; for as she 
shut the cover sharply on the poor Polypods, a knock 
was heard, and before David could answer it the door 
flew open and a girl ran in. Straight to him she went, 
and clinging to his arm said excitedly : 

“Oh, do take care of me: I’ve run away again!” 

“Why, Kitty, what’s the matter now?” asked 
David, putting back her hood, and looking down at her 
with the paternal expression Christie had not seen for 
a long time, and missed very much. 

“ Father found me, and took me home, and wanted 
me to marry a dreadful man, and I wouldn’t, so I ran 
away to you. He didn’t know I came here before, and 
I’m safe if youll let me stay,” cried Kitty, still cling- 
ing and imploring. 

“Of course I will, and glad to see you back again,” 
answered David, adding pitifully, as he put her in his 
easy-chair, took her cloak and hood off and stood strok- 
ing her curly hair: “ Poor little girl! it is hard to have 
to run away so much: isn’t it?” 

“ Not if I come here; it’s so pleasant I’d like to stay 
all my life,” and Kitty took a long breath, as if her 
troubles were over now. “Who’s that?” she asked 
suddenly, as her eye fell on Christie, who sat watching 
her with interest : 

“That is our good friend Miss Devon. She came 
to take your place, and we got so fond of her we 
could not let her go,” answered David with a gesture 
of introduction, quite unconscious that his position 
just then was about as safe and pleasant as that of 


292, WORK. 


a man between a lighted candle and an open pow- 
der barrel. 

The two young women nodded to each other, took 
a swift survey, and made up their minds before David 
had poked the fire. Christie saw a pretty face with 
rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and brown rings of hair lying ~ 
on the smooth, low forehead; a young face, but not 
childlike, for it was conscious of its own prettiness, and 
betrayed the fact by little airs and graces that reminded 
one of a coquettish kitten. Short and slender, she 
looked more youthful than she was; while a gay dress, 
with gilt ear-rings, locket at the throat, and a cherry 
ribbon in her hair made her a bright little figure in that 
plain room. 

Christie suddenly felt as if ten years had been added 
to her age, as she eyed the new-comer, who leaned back 
in the great chair talking to David, who stood on the 
rug, evidently finding it pleasanter to look at the vi- 
vacious face before him than at the fire. | 

“Just the pretty, lively sort of girl sensible men 
often marry, and then discover how silly they are,” 
thought Christie, taking up her work and assuming an 
indifferent air. 

“ She’s a lady and nice looking, but I know I shan’t 
like her,” was Kitty’s decision, as she turned away and 
devoted herself to David, hoping he would perceive 
how much she had improved and admire her accord- 
ingly. 

“So you don’t want to marry this Miles because he 
is not handsome. You’d better think again before you 
make up your mind. He is respectable, well off, and 
fond of you, it seems. Why not try it, Kitty? You 


WAKING UP. 293 


reed some one to take care of you sadly,” David said, 
when her story had been told. 

“If father plagues me much I may take the man; 
mut I’d rather have the other one if he wasn’t poor,” 
(erwered Kitty with a side-long glance of the blue 
ayes, and a conscious smile on the red lips. 

“ Oh, there’s another lover, is there ?” 

“ Lots of ’em.” 

David laughed and looked at Christie as if inviting 
ier to be amused with the freaks and prattle of a child. 
But Christie sewed away without a sign of interest. 

“That won’t do, Kitty: you are too young for much 
of such nonsense. I shall keep you here a while, and 
see if we can’t settle matters both wisely and pleas- 
mtly,” he said, shaking his head as sagely as a grand- 
‘ather. 

“JT’m sure I wish you would: I love to stay here, 
you are always so good tome. I’m inno hurry to be 
married ; and you won’t make me: will you?” 

Kitty rose as she spoke, and stood before him with a 
Bseeching little gesture, and a confiding air quite cap- 
tivating to behold. 

Christie was suddenly seized with a strong desire to 
shake the girl and call her an “artful little hussy,” but 
crushed this unaccountable impulse, and hemmed a 
pocket-handkerchief with reckless rapidity, while she 
stole covert glances at the tableau by the fire. 

David put his finger under Kitty’s round chin, and 
lifting her face looked.into it, trying to discover if 
she really cared for this suitor who seemed so provi- 
dentially provided for her. Kitty smiled and blushed, 
and dimpled under that grave look so prettily that it 


294 WORK. j 


soon changed, and David let her go, saying indw — 
gently: 

“ You shall not be troubled, for you are only a child 
after all. Let the lovers go, and stay and play with me, 
for I’ve been rather lonely lately.” 

“ That ’s a reproach for me,” thought Christie, long- 
ing to cry out: “No, no; send the girl away and let 
me be all in all to you.” But she only turned up the 
lamp and pretended to be looking for a spool, while her 
heart ached and her eyes were too dim for seeing. ¥ 

“I’m too old to play, but I’ll stay and tease you ag” 
I used to, if Miles don’t come and carry me off as he 
said he would,” answered Kitty, with a toss of the 
head which showed she was not so childlike as David 
fancied. But the next minute she was sitting on a 
stool at his feet petting the cat, while she told her ad- 
ventures with girlish volubility. 

Christie could not bear to sit and look on any longer, 
so she left the room, saying she would see if Mrs. Ster- 
ling wanted any thing, for the old lady kept her room 
with a touch of rheumatism. As she shut the door, 
Christie heard Kitty say softly : 

« Now we'll be comfortable as we used to be: won't 
we?” 

What David answered Christie did not stay to hear, 
but went into the kitchen, and had her first pang of 
jealousy out alone, while she beat up the buckwheats 
for breakfast with an energy that made them miracles 
of lightness on the morrow. 

When she told Mrs. Sterling of the new arrival, 
the placid little lady gave a cluck of regret and said 
with unusua: emphasis : 


WAKING UP. 295 


“1m sorry for it.” 
« Why?” asked Christie, feeling as if she could em- 
brace the speaker for the words. 
“She is a giddy little thing, and much care to who- 
ever befriends her.” Mrs. Sterling would say no more, 
but, as Christie bade her good-night, she held her hand, 
saying with a kiss: 
“ No one will take thy place with me, my daughter.” 
For a week Christie suffered constant pin-pricks of 
jealousy, despising herself all the time, and trying to 
be friendly with the disturber of her peace. As if 
prompted by an evil spirit, Kitty unconsciously tried 
and tormented her from morning to night, and no one 
saw or guessed it unless Mrs. Sterling’s- motherly heart 
divined the truth. David seemed to enjoy the girl’s 
lively chat, her openly expressed affection, and the fresh 
young face that always brightened when he came. 
Presently, however, Christie saw a change in him, 
and suspected that he had discovered that Kitty was a 
child no longer, but a young girl with her head full of 
‘love and lovers. The blue eyes grew shy, the pretty 
face grew eloquent with blushes now and then, as he 
looked at it, and the lively tongue faltered sometimes 
in speaking to him. A thousand little coquetries were 

played off for his benefit, and frequent appeals for 
advice in her heart affairs kept tender subjects upper- 
most in their conversations. 

At first all this seemed to amuse David as much as 
if Kitty were a small child playing at sweethearts ; but 
soon his manner changed, growing respectful, and a 
little cool when Kitty was most confiding. He no 
longer laughed about Miles, stopped calling her “ little 


296 WORK. 


girl,” and dropped his paternal ways as he had done 


with Christie. By many indescribable but significant 
signs he showed that he considered Kitty a woman 
now and treated her as such, being all the more seru- 
pulous in the respect he paid her, because she was so 
unprotected, and so wanting in the natural dignity and 
refinement which are a woman’s best protection. 

Christie admired him for this, but saw in it the 
beginning of a tenderer feeling than pity, and felt each 
day that she was one too many now. 


Kitty was puzzled and piqued by these changes, and _ 


being a born flirt tried all her powers on David, veiled 


under guileless girlishness. She was very pretty, very | 


charming, and at times most lovable and sweet when 
all that was best in her shallow little heart was touched. 
But it was evident to all that her early acquaintance 
with the hard and sordid side of life had brushed the 
bloom from her nature, and filled her mind with 
thoughts and feelings unfitted to her years. 

Mrs. Sterling was very kind to her, but never treated 
her as she did Christie; and though not a word was 
spoken between them the elder women knew that they 


——— 


quite agreed in their opinion of Kitty. She evidently — 


was rather afraid of the old lady, who said so little and 
saw so much. Christie also she shunned without ap- 
pearing to do so, and when alone with her put on airs 
that half amused, half irritated the other. 

“David is my friend, and I don’t care for any one 
else,” her manner said as plainly as words; and to him 
she devoted herself so entirely, and apparently so suc- 
cessfully, that Christie made up her mind he had at 


last begun to forget his Letty, and think of filling the | 


void her loss had left. 


WAKING UP. 297 


A few words which she accidentally overheard con- 
firmed this idea, and showed her what she must do. 
As she came quietly in one evening from a stroll in the 
lane, and stood taking off cloak and hood, she caught a 
glimpse through the half-open parlor door of David 
pacing to and fro with a curiously excited expression 
on his face, and heard Mrs. Sterling say with unusual 
warmth : 

“Thee is too hard upon thyself, Davy. Forget the 
past and be happy as other men are. Thee has atoned 
for thy fault long ago, so let me see thee at peace 
before I die, my son.” 

“ Not yet, mother, not yet. I have no right to hope 
or ask for any woman’s love till I am worthier of it,” 
answered David in a tone that thrilled Christie’s heart : 
it was so full of love and longing. 

Here Kitty came running in from the green-house 
with her hands full of flowers, and passing Christie, who 
was fumbling among the cloaks in the passage, she 
went to show David some new blossom. 

He had no time to alter the expression of his face 
for its usual grave serenity: Kitty saw the change at 
once, and spoke of it with her accustomed want of 
tact. 

“ How handsome you look! What ave you thinking 
-about?” she said, gazing up at him with her own eyes 
bright with wonder, and her cheeks glowing with the 
_ delicate carmine of the frosty air. 
~~ “Tam thinking that you look more like a rose than 
ever,’ answered David turning her attention from him- 
self by a compliment, and beginning to admire the 


13* 


298 WORK. 


flowers, still with that flushed and kindled look on his 


own face. 
Christie crept upstairs, and, sitting in the dark, decided 
with the firmness of despair to go away, lest she should 


betray the secret that possessed her, a dead hope now, 


but still too dear to be concealed. : 

“ Mr. Power told me to come to him when I got tired 
of this. Ill say I am tired and try something else, no 
matter what: I can bear any thing, but to stand quietly 
by and see David marry that empty-hearted girl, who 
‘ dares to show that she desires to win him. Out of 
sight of all this, I can conquer my love, at least hide it; 
but if I stay I know I shall betray myself in some bit- 
ter minute, and [’d rather die than do that.” 

Armed with this resolution, Christie went the next 
day to Mr. Power, and simply said: “I am not needed 


at the Sterlings any more: can you give me other work — 


to do?” 

Mr. Power’s keen eye searched her face for a mo- 
ment, as if to discover the real motive for her wish. 
But Christie had nerved herself to bear that look, and 
showed no sign of her real trouble, unless the set ex- 
pression of her lips, and the unnatural steadiness of 
her eyes betrayed it to that experienced reader of 
human hearts. 

Whatever he suspected or saw, Mr. Power kept to 
himself, and answered in his cordial way : 

“ Well, I’ve been expecting you would tire of that 
quiet life, and have plenty of work ready for you. 
One of my good Dorcases is tired out and must rest; so 
you shall take her place and visit my poor, report 
their needs, and supply them as fast as we can. Does 
that suit you?” 


WAKING UP. 299 


“ Entirely, sir. Where shall I live?” asked Christie, 
with an expression of relief that said much. 

“ Here for the present. I want a secretary to put my 
papers in order, write some of my letters, and do a 
thousand things to help a busy man. My old house- 
keeper likes you, and will let you take a duster now 
and then if you don’t find enough other work to do. 
When can you come ?” 

Christie answered with a long breath of satisfaction : 
“ To-morrow, if you like.” 

“JT do: can you be spared so soon ?” 

“Oh, yes! they don’t want me now at all, or I would 
not leave them. Iitty can take my place: she needs 
protection more than I; and there is not room for two.” 
She checked herself there, conscious that a tone of 
bitterness had crept into her voice. Then quite steadily 
she added : 

“ Will you be kind enough to write, and ask Mrs. 
Sterling if she can spare me? I shall find it hard to 
tell her myself, for I fear she may think me ungrateful 
after all her kindness.” 

“No: she is used to parting with those whom she 
has helped, and is always glad to set them on their way 
toward better things. I will write to-morrow, and you 
can come whenever you will, sure of a welcome, my 
child.” 

Something in the tone of those last words, and the 
pressure of the strong, kind hand, touched Christie’s 
sore heart, and made it impossible for her to hide the 
truth entirely. 

She only said: “Thank you, sir. I shall be very 
glad to come;” but her eyes were full, and she held 


300 WORK. 


his hand an instant, as if she clung to it sure of succor 
and support. 

Then she went home so pale and quiet; so helpful, 
patient, and affectionate, that Mrs. Sterling watched 
her anxiously; David looked amazed ; and, even self 
absorbed Kitty saw the change, and was touched 
by it. 

On the morrow, Mr. Power’s note came, and Christie 
fled upstairs while it was read and discussed, 

“Tf I get through this parting without disgracing 
myself, I don’t care what happens to me afterward,” she 
said; and, in order that she might do so, she assumed 
a cheerful air, and determined to depart with all the 
honors of war, if she died in the attempt. 

So, when Mrs. Sterling called her down, she went 
humming into the parlor, smiled as she read the note 
silently given her, and then said with an effort greater 
than any she had ever made in her most arduous part 
on the stage: 

“Yes, I did say to Mr. Power that I thought I’d 
better be moving on. I’m a restless creature as you 
know; and, now that you don’t need me, I’ve a fancy to 
see more of the world. If you want me back again in 
the spring, Ill come.” | 

“J shall want thee, my dear, but will not say a word 
to keep thee now, for thee does need a change, and Mr. 
Power can give thee work better suited to thy taste 
than any here. We shall see thee sometimes, and 
spring will make thee long for the flowers, I hope,” 
was Mrs. Sterling’s answer, as Christie gave back the 
note at the end of her difficult speech. 

“Don’t think me ungrateful. I have been very 


WAKING UP. 301 


happy here, and never shall forget how motherly kind 
you have been to me. You will believe this and love 
me still, though I go away and leave you for a little 
while ?” prayed Christie, with a face full of treacherous 
emotion. 

Mrs. Sterling laid her hand on Christie’s head, as she 
knelt down impulsively before her, and with a soft so- 
lemnity that made the words both an assurance and a 
blessing, she said: 

“J believe and love and honor thee, my child. My 
heart warmed to thee from the first: it has taken 
thee to itself now; and nothing can ever come between 
us, unless thee wills it. Itemember that, and go in 
peace with an old friend’s thanks, and good wishes 
in return for faithful service, which no money can 
repay.” 

Christie laid her cheek against that wrinkled one, and, 
for a moment, was held close to that peaceful old heart 
which felt so tenderly for her, yet never wounded her 
by a word of pity. Infinitely comforting was that little 
instant of time, when the venerable woman consoled 
the young one with a touch, and strengthened her by 
the mute eloquence of sympathy. 

This made the hardest task of all easier to perform ; 
and, when David met her in the evening, Christie was 
ready to play out her part, feeling that Mrs. Sterling 
would help her, if need be. But David took it very 
quietly ; at least, he showed no very poignant regret at 
her departure, though he lamented it, and hoped it 
would not be a very long absence. This wounded 
Christie terribly ; for all of a sudden a barrier seemed 
to rise between them, and the old friendliness grew 
chilled. 


302 WORK. 


“He thinks I am ungrateful, and is offended,” she 
said to herself. ‘ Well, I can bear coldness better than 
kindness now, and it will make it easier to go.” 

Ixitty was pleased at the prospect of reigning alone, 
and did not disguise her satisfaction ; so Christie’s last 
day was any thing but pleasant. Mr. Power would 
send for her on the morrow, and she busied herself in 
packing her own possessions, setting every thing in 
order, and making various little arrangements for Mrs. 
Sterling’s comfort, as Kitty was a heedless creature; 
willing enough, but very forgetful. In the evening 
some neighbors came in; so that dangerous time was 
safely passed, and Christie escaped to her own room 
with her usual quiet good-night all round. 

“We won't have any sentimental demonstrations ; 
no wailing, or tender adieux. If I’m weak enough to 
/ break my heart, no one need know it, —least of all, 
that little fool,’ thought Christie, grimly, as she burnt 
up several long-cherished relics of her love. 

She was up early, and went about her usual work 
with the sad pleasure with which one performs a task 
for the last time. Lazy little Kitty never appeared till 
the bell rang; and Christie was fond of that early hour, 
busy though it was, for David was always before her 
with blazing fires; and, while she got breakfast, he 
came and went with wood and water, milk and market- 
ing; often stopping to talk, and always in his happiest 
mood. 

The first snow-fall had made the world wonderfully 
lovely that morning; and Christie stood at the window 
admiring the bridal look of the earth, as it lay daz- 
zlingly white in the early sunshine. The little parlor 


WAKING UP. 3038 


was fresh and clean, with no speck of dust anywhere ; 
the fire burned on the bright andirons; the flowers 
were rejoicing in their morning bath; and the table 
was set out with dainty care. So homelike, so pleas- 
ant, so very dear to her, that Christie yearned to stay, 
yet dared not, and had barely time to steady face and 
voice, when David came in with the little posies he 
always had ready for his mother and Christie at break- 
fast time. Only a flower by their plates; but it meant 
much to them: for, in these lives of ours, tender little 
acts do more to bind hearts together than great deeds 
or heroic words; since the first are like the dear daily 
bread that none can live without; the latter but occa- 
sional feasts, beautiful and memorable, but not possible 
to all. 

This morning David laid a sprig of sweet-scented 
balm at his mother’s place, two or three rosy daisies at 
Kitty’s, and a bunch of Christie’s favorite violets at hers. 
She smiled as her eye went from the scentless daisies, 
so pertly pretty, to her own posy full of perfume, and 
the half sad, half sweet associations that haunt these 
blue-eyed flowers. 

“TI wanted pansies for you, but not one would bloom; 
so I did the next best, since you don’t like roses,” said 
David, as Christie stood looking at the violets with 
a thoughtful face, for something in the peculiarly grace- 
ful arrangement of the heart-shaped leaves recalled 
another nosegay to her mind. 

“T like these very much, because they came to me in 
the beginning of this, the happiest year of my life;” 
and searcely knowing why, except that it was very sweet 
to talk with David in the early sunshine, she told about 


304 WORK. 


the flowers some one had given her at church. As she 
finished she looked up at him; and, though his face was 
perfectly grave, his eyes laughed, and with a sudden con- 
viction of the truth, Christie exclaimed ! 

“ David, I do believe it was you!” 

“I couldn’t help it: you seemed so touched and 
troubled. I longed to speak to you, but didn’t dare, so 
dropped the flowers and got away as fast as possible. 
Did you think it very rude?” 

“T thought it the sweetest thing that ever happened 
tome. That was my first step along a road that you 
have strewn with flowers ever since. I can’t thank 
you, but I never shall forget it.” Christie spoke out 
fervently, and for an instant her heart shone in her 
face. Then she checked herself, and, fearing she had 
said too much, fell to slicing bread with an energetic 
rapidity which. resulted in a cut finger. Dropping the 
knife, she tried to get her handkerchief, but the blood 
flowed fast, and the pain of a deep gash made her a 
little faint. David sprung to help her, tied up the 
wound, put her in the big chair, held water to her lips, 
and bathed her temples with a wet napkin; silently, but 
so tenderly, that it was almost too much for poor 
Christie. 

For one happy moment her head lay on his arm, and 
his hand brushed back her hair with a touch that was a 
caress: she heard his heart beat fast with anxiety; felt 
his breath on her cheek, and wished that she might die 
then and there, though a bread-knife was not a roman- 
tic weapon, nor a cut finger as interesting as a broken 
heart. Kitty’s voice made her start up, and the blissful 
vision of life, with David in the little house alone, van- 


is 


WAKING UP. 3805 


ished like a bright bubble, leaving the hard reality to 
be lived out with nothing but a woman’s pride to 
conceal a woman’s most passionate pain. 

“It’s nothing: I’m all right now. Don’t say any 
thing to worry your mother; I’ll put on a bit of court- 
plaster, and no one will be the wiser,” she said, hastily 
removing all traces of the accident but her own pale 
face. 

“Poor Christie, it’s hard that you should go away 


“One Happy Moment.” 


T 


306 WORK. 


with a wound like this on the hand that has done so 
much for us,” said David, as he carefully adjusted the 
black strip on that forefinger, roughened by many 
stitches set for him. 

“T loved to do it,” was all Christie trusted herself to 
say. 

“T know you did; and in your own words I can only 
answer: ‘I don’t know how to thank you, but I never 
shall forget it’” And David kissed the wounded hand 
as gratefully and reverently as if its palm was not 
hardened by the humblest tasks. 

If he had only known — ah, if he had only known! — 
how easily he might repay that debt, and heal the 
deeper wound in Christie’s heart. As it was, she could 
only say, “ You are too kind,” and begin to shovel tea 
into the pot, as Kitty came in, as rosy and fresh as the 
daisies she put in her hair. 

“ Ain’t they becoming?” she asked, turning to Da- 
vid for admiration. 

“ No, thank you,” he answered ae looking out 
over her head, as he stood upon the rug in the attitude 
which the best men will assume in the bosoms of their 
families. 

Kitty looked offended, and turned to the mirror for 
comfort; while Christie went on shovelling tea, quite 
unconscious what she was about till David said gravely : 

“Won't that be rather strong?” 

“How stupid of me! I always forget that Kitty does 
not drink tea,” and Christie rectified her mistake with 
all speed. 

Kitty laughed, and said in her pert little way : 

“Getting up early don’t seem to agree with either 


oc 


WAKING UP. 307 


of you this morning: I wonder what you’ve been 
doing?” 

“Your work. Suppose you bring in the kettle: 
Christie has hurt her hand.” 

David spoke quietly ; but Kitty looked as much sur- 
prised as if he had boxed her ears, for he had never 
used that tone to her before. She meekly obeyed; and 
David added with a smile to Christie: 

“ Mother is coming down, and you’ll have to get 
more color into your cheeks if you mean to hide your 
accident from her.” 

“That is easily done;” and Christie rubbed her pale 
cheeks till they rivalled Kitty’s in their bloom. 

“ How well you women know how to conceal your 
wounds,” said David, half to himself. 

“Jt is an invaluable accomplishment for us sometimes : 
you forget that I have been an actress,” answered 
Christie, with a bitter sort of smile. 

“JT wish I could forget what J have been!” muttered 
David, turning his back to her and kicking a log that 
had rolled out of place. 

In came Mrs. Sterling, and every one brightened up 
to meet her. Kitty was silent, and wore an injured air 
which nobody minded; Christie was very lively; and 
David did his best to help her through that last meal, 
which was a hard one to three out of the four. 

At noon a carriage came for Christie, and she said 
good-by, as she had drilled herself to say it, cheerfully 
and steadily. 

“It is only for a time, else I couldn’t let thee go, 
my dear,” said Mrs. Sterling, with a close embrace. 

“TJ shall see you at church, and Tuesday evenings, 


308 WORK. 


even if you don’t find time to come to us, so I shall not 
say good-by at all;” and David shook hands warmly, 
as he put her into the carriage. 

“T’ll invite you to my wedding when I make up my 
mind,” said Kitty, with feminine malice; for in her eyes 
Christie was an old maid who doubtless envied her her 
“lots of lovers.” 

“T hope you will be very happy. In the mean time 
try to save dear Mrs. Sterling all you can, and let her 
make you worthy a good husband,” was Christie’s an- 
swer to a speech she was too noble to resent by a sharp 
word, or even a contemptuous look. 

Then she drove away, smiling and waving her hand 
to the old lady at her window; but the last thing she 
saw as she left the well-beloved lane, was David going 
slowly up the path, with Kitty close beside him, talking 
busily. If she had heard the short dialogue between 
them, the sight would have been less bitter, for Kitty 
said : 

“She ’s dreadful good; but I’m glad she’s gone: ain’t 
you?” 

NO. 

“Had you rather have her here than me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why don’t you ask her to come back.” 

“T would if I could!” 

“T never did see any thing like it; every one is so 
queer and cross to-day I get snubbed all round. If 
folks ain’t good to me, I’ll go and marry Miles! I de 
clare I will.” 

“You'd better,” and with that David left her frown- 
ing and pouting in the porch, and went to shovelling 
snow with unusual vigor. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


WHICH ? 


DAVID. 


R. POWER received Christie so hospitably that 

she felt at home at once, and took up her new 

duties with the energy of one anxious to repay a favor. 

Her friend knew well the saving power of work, and 

gave her plenty of it; but it was a sort that at once 

interested and absorbed her, so that she had little time 

for dangerous thoughts or vain regrets. As he once 

said, Mr. Power made her own: troubles seem light by 

showing her others so terribly real and great that she 
was ashamed to repine at her own lot. 


310 WORK. 


Her gift of sympathy served her well, past expe- 
rience gave her a quick eye to read the truth in others, | 
and the earnest desire to help and comfort made her an 
excellent almoner for the rich, a welcome friend to the 
poor. She was in just the right mood to give herself 
gladly to any sort of sacrifice, and labored with a quiet 
energy, painful to witness had any one known the hid- 
den suffering that would not let her rest. 

If she had been a regular novel heroine at this crisis, 
she would have grown gray in a single night, had a 
dangerous illness, gone mad, or at least taken to per- 
vading the house at unseasonable hours with her back 
hair down and much wringing of the hands. Being 
only a commonplace woman she did nothing so roman- 
tic, but instinctively tried to sustain and comfort her- 
self with the humble, wholesome duties and affections 
which seldom fail to keep heads sane and hearts safe. 
Yet, though her days seemed to pass so busily and 
cheerfully, it must be confessed that there were lonely 
vigils in the night; and sometimes in the morning 
Christie’s eyes were very heavy, Christie’s pillow wet 

. With tears. 

‘But life never is all work or sorrow; and happy 
hours, helpful pleasures, are mercifully given like way- 
side springs to pilgrims trudging wearily along. Mr. 
Power showed Christie many such, and silently pro- 
vided her with better consolation than pity or advice. 

“ Deeds not words,” was his motto; and he lived it 
out most faithfully. “Books and work” he gave his _ 
new charge; and then followed up that prescription. 
with “healthful play” of a sort she liked, and had © 
longed for all her life. Sitting at his table Christie | 


\ 


WHICH ? 511 


saw the best and bravest men and women of our times ; 
for Mr. Power was a magnet that drew them from all 
parts of the world. She saw and heard, admired and 
loved them; felt her soul kindle with the desire to fol- 
low in their steps, share their great tasks, know their 
difficulties and dangers, and in the end taste the immor- 
tal satisfactions given to those who live and labor for 
their fellow-men. In such society all other aims seemed 
poor and petty; for they appeared to live in a nobler 
world than any she had known, and she felt as if 
they belonged to another race; not men nor angels, 
but a delightful mixture of the two; more as she im- 
agined the gods and heroes of old; not perfect, but 
wonderfully strong and brave and good; each gifted 
with a separate virtue, and each bent on a mission that 
should benefit mankind. 

Nor was this the only pleasure given her. One even- 
ing of each week was set apart by Mr. Power for the 
reception of whomsoever chose to visit him; for his 
parish was a large one, and his house a safe haunt for 
refugees from all countries, all oppressions. 

Christie enjoyed these evenings heartily, for there 
was no ceremony; each comer brought his mission, 
idea, or need, and genuine hospitality made the visit 
profitable or memorable to all, for entire freedom pre- 
vailed, and there was stabling for every one’s hobby. 

Christie felt that she was now receiving the best cult- 
ure, acquiring the polish that society gives, and makes 
truly admirable when character adds warmth and power 
to its charm. The presence of her bosom-care calmed 
the old unrest, softened her manners, and at times 
touched her face with an expression more beautiful 


312 WORK. 


than heauty.fShe was quite unconscious of the changes 
passing over her; and if any one had told her she was 
fast becoming a most attractive woman, she would 
have been utterly incredulous. But others saw and 
felt the new charm; for no deep experience bravely 
borne can fail to leave its mark, often giving power in 
return for patience, and lending a subtle loveliness to 
faces whose bloom it has destroyed. 

This fact was made apparent to Christie one evening 
when she went down to the weekly gathering in one 
of the melancholy moods which sometimes oppressed 
her. She felt dissatisfied with herself because her 
interest in all things began to flag, and a restless 
longing for some new excitement to break up the 
monotonous pain of her inner life possessed her. Being 


still a little shy in company, she slipped quietly into a 


recess which commanded a view of both rooms, and 
sat looking listlessly about her while waiting for David, 
who seldom failed to come. 

A curious collection of fellow-beings was before her, 


and at another time she would have found much to 


interest and amuse her. In one corner a newly im- 
ported German with an Orson-like head, thumb-ring, 
and the fragrance of many meerschaums still hovering 
about him, was hammering away upon some disputed 
point with a scientific Frenchman, whose national 
politeness was only equalled by his national volubility. 
A prominent statesman was talking with a fugitive 
slave; a young poet getting inspiration from the face | 
and voice of a handsome girl who had earned the right 


to put M. D.tohername. An old philosopher was pee | 


ing the ardor of several rampant radicals, and a famous _ 


WHICH 2 813 


singer was comforting the heart of an Italian exile by 
talking politics in his own melodious tongue. 

There were plenty of reformers: some as truculent 
as Martin Luther; others as beaming and_ beneyo- 
lent as if the pelting of the world had only mellowed 
them, and no amount of denunciatory thunder could 
sour the milk of human kindness creaming in their 
happy hearts. There were eager women just beginning 
their protest against the wrongs that had wrecked their 
peace; subdued women who had been worsted in the 


unequal conflict and given it up; resolute women with: 


“ No surrender” written all over their strong-minded 
countenances ; and sweet, hopeful women, whose faith 
in God and man nothing could shake or sadden. 

But to Christie there was only one face worth look- 
ing at till David came, and that was Mr. Power’s; for 
he was a perfect host, and pervaded the rooms like a 
genial atmosphere, using the welcome of eye and hand 
which needs no language to interpret it, giving to each 
guest the intellectual fare he loved, and making their 
enjoyment his own. 

“ Bless the dear man! what should we all do without 
him?” thought Christie, following him with grateful 
eyes, as he led an awkward youth in rusty black to the 
statesman whom it had been the desire of his ambi- 
tious soul to meet. 

The next minute she proved that she at least could 
do without the “dear man;” for David entered the 
room, and she forgot all about him. Here and at 
church were the only places where the friends had 
met during these months, except one or two short 

14 


Ny, 


- 


814 WORK. 


visits to the little house in the lane when Christie 
devoted herself to Mrs. Sterling. 

David was quite unchanged, though once or twice 
Christie fancied he seemed ill at ease with her, and im- 
mediately tormented herself with the idea that some 
alteration in her own manner had perplexed or offended 
him. She did her best to be as frank and cordial as in 
the happy old days; but it was impossible, and she soon 
gave it up, assuming in the place of that former friend- 
liness, a grave and quiet manner which would have led 
a wiser man than David to believe her busied with her 
own affairs and rather indifferent to every thing else. 

If he had known how her heart danced in her bosom, 
her eyes brightened, and all the world became endur- 
able, the moment he appeared, he would not have been 
so long in joining her, nor have doubted what welcome 
awaited him. 

As it was, he stopped to speak to his host; and, before 
he reappeared, Christie had found the excitement she 
had been longing for. 

“ Now some bore will keep him an hour, and the 
evening is so short,” she thought, with a pang of disap- 
pointment; and, turning her eyes away from the crowd 
which had swallowed up her heart’s desire, they fell 
upon a gentleman just entering, and remained fixed 
with an expression of unutterable surprise; for there, 
elegant, calm, and cool as ever, stood Mr. Fletcher. 

“ How came he here ?” was her first question; “ How 
will he behave to me?” her second. As she could 
answer neither, she composed herself as fast as possible, 
resolving to let matters take their own course, and 
feeling in the mood for an encounter with a discarded 


& 


WHICH? 815 


lover, 2s she took a womanish satisfaction in remember- 
ing that the very personable gentleman before her had 
once been. 

Mr. Fletcher and his companion passed on to find 
their host; and, with a glance at the mirror opposite, 
which showed her that the surprise of the moment had 
given her the color she lacked before, Christie occupied 
herself with a portfolio of engravings, feeling very 
much as she used to feel when waiting at a side scene 
for her cue. 

She had not long to wait before Mr. Power came up, 
and presented the stranger; for such he fancied him, 
never having heard a certain episode in Christie’s life. 
Mr. Fletcher bowed, with no sign of recognition in his 
face, and began to talk in the smooth, low voice she 
remembered so well. For the moment, through sheer 
surprise, Christie listened and replied as any young 
lady might have done to a new-made acquaintance. 
But very soon she felt sure that Mr. Fletcher intended 
to ignore the past; and, finding her on a higher round 
of the social ladder, to accept the fact and begin again. 

At first she was angry, then amused, then interested 
in the somewhat dramatic turn affairs were taking, and 
very wisely decided to meet him on his own ground, 
and see what came of it. 

In the midst of an apparently absorbing discussion 
of one of Raphael’s most insipid Madonnas, she was 
conscious that David had approached, paused, and 
was scrutinizing her companion with unusual interest. 
Seized with a sudden desire to see the two men to- 
gether, Christie beckoned; and when he obeyed, she 
introduced him, drew him into the conversation, and 


316 , WORK. 


then left him in the lurch by falling silent and taking 
notes while they talked. 

If she wished to wean her heart from David by seeing 
him at a disadvantage, she could have devised no better 
way; for, though a very feminine test, it answered the 
purpose excellently. 

Mr. Fletcher was a handsome man, and just then 
looked his best. Improved health gave energy and 
color to his formerly sallow, listless face: the cold eyes 
were softer, the hard mouth suave and smiling, and 
about the whole man there was that indescribable 
something which often proves more attractive than 
worth or wisdom to keener-sighted women than Christie. 
Never had he talked better; for, as if he suspected 
what was in the mind of one hearer, he exerted himself 
to be as brilliant as possible, and succeeded admirably. 

David never appeared so ill, for he had no clew to 
the little comedy being played before him; and long 
seclusion and natural reserve unfitted him to shine 
beside a man of the world like Mr. Fletcher. His 
simple English sounded harsh, after the foreign phrases 
that slipped so easily over the other’s tongue. He had 
visited no galleries, seen few of the world’s wonders, 
and could only listen when they were discussed. More 
than once he was right, but failed to prove it, for Mr. 
Fletcher skilfully changed the subject or quenched him 
with a politely incredulous shrug. 

Even in the matter of costume, poor David was 
worsted ; for, in a woman’s eyes, dress has wonderful 
significance. Christie used to think his suit of sober gray 
the most becoming man could wear; but now it looked 
shapeless and shabby, beside garments which bore the 


WHICH? 317 


stamp of Paris in the gloss and grace of broadcloth 
and fine linen. David wore no gloves: Mr. Fletch- 
er’s were immaculate. David’s tie was so plain no 
one observed it: Mr. Fletcher’s, elegant and faultless 
enough for a modern Beau Brummel. David’s hand- 
kerchief was of the commonest sort (she knew that, 
for she hemmed it herself): Mr. Fletcher’s was the finest 
cambric, and a delicate breath of perfume refreshed the 
aristocratic nose to which the article belonged. 

Christie despised herself as she made these compar- 
isons, and felt how superficial they were; but, having 
resolved to exalt one man at the expense of the other for 
her own good, she did not relent till David took advan- 
tage of a pause, and left them with a reproachful look that 
made her wish Mr. Fletcher at the bottom of the sea. 

When they were alone a subtle change in his face 
and manner convinced her that he also had been taking 
notes, and had arrived at a favorable decision regard- 
ing herself. Women are quick at making such discov- 
eries ; and, even while she talked with him as a stranger, 
she felt assured that, if she chose, she might make him 
again her lover. 

\ Here was a temptation! |She had longed for some 
new excitement, and fate seemed to have put one of 
the most dangerous within her reach. It was natural 
to find comfort in the knowledge that somebody loved 
her, and to take pride in her power over one man, 
because another did not own it. In spite of her better 
self she felt the fascination of the hour, and yielded to 
it, half unconsciously assuming something of the “ dash 
and daring” which Mr. Fletcher had once confessed to 
finding so captivating in the demure governess. He 


318 WORK. 


evidently thought so still, and played his part with 
spirit; for, while apparently enjoying a conversation 
which contained no allusion to the past, the memory of 
it gave piquancy to that long ¢ée-d-téte. 

As the first guests began to go, Mr. Fletcher’s friend 
beckoned to him; and he rose, saying with an accent of 
regret which changed to one of entreaty, as he put his 
question : 

“T, too, must go. May I come again, Miss Devon?” 
. “J am scarcely more than a guest myself; but Mr. 
Power is always glad to. see whoever cares to come,” 
replied Christie rather primly, though her eyes were 
dancing with amusement at the recollection of those 
love passages upon the beach. 

“ Next time, I shall come not as a stranger, but as a 
former — may I say friend?” he added quickly, as if 
emboldened by the mirthful eyes that so belied the 
demure lips. 

“ Now you forget your part,” and Christie’s primness 
vanished in a laugh. “I am glad of it, for I want to 
ask about Mrs. Saltonstall and the children. I’ve 
often thought of the little dears, and longed to see 
them.” 

“ They are in Paris with their father.” 

“Mrs. Saltonstall is well, I hope?” 

“ She died six months ago.” 

An expression of genuine sorrow came over Mr, 
Fletcher’s face as he spoke; and, remembering that the 
silly little woman was his sister, Christie put out her 
hand with a look and gesture so full of sympathy that 
words were unnecessary. Taking advantage of this 
propitious moment, he said, with an expressive glance. 


WHICH ?2 319 


and effective tone: “I am all alone now. You wiill let 
me come again?” 

“Certainly, if it can give you pleasure,” she an- 
swered heartily, forgetting herself in pity for his sor- 
row. 

Mr. Fletcher pressed her hand with a grateful, 
“Thank you!” and wisely went away at once, leaving 
compassion to plead for him better than he could have 
done it for himself. 

Leaning back in her chair, Christie was thinking over 
this interview so intently that she started when David’s 
voice said close beside her: 

“Shall I disturb you if I say, ‘ Good-night’ ?” 

“JT thought you were not going to say it at all,” 
she answered rather sharply. 

“T’ve been looking for a chance; but you were so 
absorbed with that man I had to wait.” 

“ Considering the elegance of ‘that man,’ you don’t 
treat him with much respect.” 

“T don’t feel much. What brought him here, I won- 
der. A French salon is more in his line.” 

“ He came to see Mr. Power, as every one else does, 
of course.” 

“Don’t dodge, Christie: you know he came to see 
you.” 

“Tow do you like him?” she asked, with treacher- 
ous abruptness. 

“ Not particularly, so far. But if I knew him, I dare 
say I should find many good traits in him.” 

“T know you would!” said Christie, warmly, not 
thinking of Fletcher, but of David’s kindly way of 
finding 7 g608 in every one. 


320 WORK. 


“[e must have improved since you saw him last; 
for then, if I remember rightly, you found him ‘lazy, 
cross, selfish, and conceited.’ ” 

“ Now, David, I never said any thing of the sort,” 
began Christie, wondering what possessed him to be so 
satirical and short with her. 

“Yes, you did, last September, sitting on the old 
apple-tree the morning of your birthday.” 

“What an inconvenient memory you have! Well, 
he was all that then; but he is not an invalid now, and 
so we see his real self.” 

“JT also remember that you gave me the impression 
that he was an elderly man.” 

“ Isn’t forty elderly ?” 

“ Te wasn’t forty when you taught his sister’s chil- 
dren.” 

“No; but he looked older than he does now, being 
so ill. I used to think he would be very handsome 
with good health; and now I see I was right,” said 
Christie, with feigned enthusiasm; for it was a new 
thing to tease David, and she liked it. 

But she got no more of it; for, just then, the singer 
began to sing to the select few who remained, and 
every one was silent. Leaning on the high back of 
Christie’s chair,| David watched the reflection of her 
face in the long mirror; for she listened to the music 
with downcast eyes, unconscious what eloquent ex- 
pressions were passing over her countenance. She 
seemed a new Christie to David, in that excited mood ; 
and, as he watched her, he thought : 

_ “She loved this man once, or he loved her; and to- 
night it all comes back to her. How will it end?” 


WHICH? O21 


So earnestly did he try to read that altered face that 
Christie felt the intentness of his gaze, looked up sud- 
denly, and met his eyes in the glass” Something in the 


expression of those usually serene eyes, now darkened 


and dilated with the intensity of that long scrutiny, 
surprised and troubled her; and, scarcely knowing what 
she said, she asked quickly : 

“ Who are you admiring?” 

“Not myself.” 

“J wonder if you’d think me vain if I asked you 
something that I want to know?” she said, obeying a 
sudden impulse. 

“ Ask it, and I'll tell you.” 

“ Am I much changed since you first knew me?” 

“Very much.” 

“For the better or the worse?” 

“The better, decidedly.” 

“Thank you, I hoped so; but one never knows how 
one seems to other people. I was wondering what 
you saw in the glass.” 

“ A good and lovely woman, Christie.” 

How sweet it sounded to hear David say that! so 
simply and sincerely that it was far more than a mere 
compliment. She did not thank him, but said softly as 
if to herself: 

*“So let me seem until I be” 
—and then sat silent, so full of satisfaction in the 
thought that David found her “good and lovely,” she 
could not resist stealing a glance at the tell-tale mirror 
to see if she might believe him. 

She forgot herself, however; for he was off guard now, 
and stood looking away with brows knit, lips tightly 

14* u 


322 WORK. 


set, and eyes fixed, yet full of fire; his whole attitude 
and expression that of a man intent on subduing some 
strong impulse by a yet stronger will. 

It startled Christie; and she leaned forward, watching 
him with breathless interest till the song ceased, and, 
with the old impatient gesture, David seemed to relapse 
into his accustomed quietude. 

“It was the wonderful music that excited him: that 
was all;” thought Christie; yet, when he came round 
to say good-night, the strange expression was not gone, 
and his manner was not his own. 

“ Shall J ask if I may come again,” he said, imitating 
Mr. Fletcher’s graceful bow with an odd smile. 

“T let him come because he has lost his sister, and is 
lonely,” began Christie, but got no further, for David 
» said, “ Good-night!” abruptly, and was gone without a 
word to Mr. Power. 

“He’s in a hurry to get back to his Kitty,” she 
thought, tormenting herself with feminine skill. “Never 
mind,” she added, with a defiant sort of smile; “JZ ’ve 
got my Philip, handsomer and more in love than ever, 
if I’m not deceived. I wonder if he will come again?” 

Mr. Fletcher did come again, and with flattering regu- 
larity, for several weeks, evidently finding something 
very attractive in those novel gatherings. Mr. Power 
soon saw why he came; and, as Christie seemed to enjoy 
his presence, the good man said nothing to disturb her, 
though he sometimes cast an anxious glance toward the 
recess where the two usually sat, apparently busy with 
books or pictures; yet, by their faces, showing that an 
under current of deeper interest than art or literature 
flowed through their intercourse. 


WHICH? 323 


Christie had not deceived herself, and it was evident 
that her old lover meant to try his fate again, if she 
continued to smile upon him as she had done of late. 
He showed her his sunny side now, and very pleasant 
she found it. The loss of his sister had touched his 
heart, and made him long to fill the place her death 
left vacant. Better health sweetened his temper, and 
woke the desire to do something worth the doing; and 
the sight of the only woman he had ever really loved, 
reawakened the sentiment that had not died, and made 
it doubly sweet. 

Why he cared for Christie he could not tell, but he 
never had forgotten her; and, when he met her again 
with that new beauty in her face, he felt that time had 
only ripened the blithe girl into a deep-hearted woman, 
and he loved her with a better love than before. His 
whole manner showed this; for the half-careless, half- 
condescending air of former times was replaced by the 
most courteous respect, a sincere desire to win her 
favor, and at times the tender sort of devotion women 
find so charming. 

Christie felt all this, sarored it, and tried to be 
grateful for it in the way he wished, thinking that hearts 
could be managed like children, and when one toy is 
unattainable, be appeased by a bigger or a brighter one 
of another sort. 

“T must love some one,” she said, as she leaned over 
a basket of magnificent flowers just left for her by Mr. 
Fletcher’s servant, a thing which often happened now. 
“ Philip has loved me with a fidelity that ought to touch 
my heart. Why not accept him, and enjoy a new life 
of luxury, novelty, and pleasure? All these things he 


(ae 


324 WORK. 


can give me: all these things are valued, admired, and 
sought for; and who would appreciate them more than 
I? I could travel, cultivate myself in many delightful 
ways, and do so much good. No matter if I was not 
very happy: I should make Philip so, and have it in my 
power to comfort many poor souls. That ought to satisfy 
me; for what is nobler than to live for others?” 

This idea attracted her, as it does all generous natures; 
she became enamoured of self-sacrifice, and almost per- 
suaded herself that it was her duty to marry Mr. 
Fletcher, whether she loved him or not, in order that 
she might dedicate her life to the service of poorer, 
sadder creatures than herself. 

But in spite of this amiable delusion, in spite of the 
desire to forget the love she would have in the love she 
might have, and in spite of the great improvement in 
her faithful Philip, Christie could not blind herself to 
the fact that her head, rather than her heart, advised 
the match; she could not conquer a suspicion that, how- 
ever much Mr. Fletcher might love his wife, he would 
be. + Sper sae Maca she was very sure she 
never would make a goo slave. In her cooler mo- 
ments she remembered that men are not puppets, to 
be moved as a woman’s will commands,jand the uncer- 
tainty of being able to carry out her charitable plans 
made her pause to consider whether she would not be 
selling her liberty too cheaply, if in return she got only 
dependence and bondage along with fortune and a 
home. 

So tempted and perplexed, self-deluded and _ self- 
warned, attracted and repelled, was poor Christie, that 
she began to feel as if she had got into a labyrinth 


WHICH? 025 


without any clew to bring her safely out. She longed 
to ask advice of some one, but could not turn to Mrs. 
Sterling; and what other woman friend had she except 
Rachel, from whom she had not heard for months? 

As she asked herself this question one day, feeling 
sure that Mr. Fletcher would come in the evening, and 
would soon put his fortune to the touch again, the 
thought of Mrs. Wilkins seemed to answer her. 

“ Why not?” said Christie: “she is sensible, kind, 
and discreet; she may put me right, for I’m all in a 
tangle now with doubts and fears, feelings and fan- 
cies. Ill go and see her: that will do me good, even 
if I don’t say a word about my ‘ werryments,’ as the 
dear soul would call them.” 

Away she went, and fortunately found her friend 
alone in the “settin’-room,” darning away at a perfect 
stack of socks, as she creaked comfortably to and fro 
in her old rocking-chair. 

“T was jest wishin’ somebody would drop in: it’s 
so kinder lonesome with the children to school and 
Adelaide asleep. How be you, dear?” said Mrs. Wil- 
kins, with a hospitable hug and a beaming smile. 

“I’m worried in my mind, so I came to see you,” 
answered Christie, sitting down with a sigh. 

“ Bless your dear heart, what 7s to pay. Free your 
mind, and I’ll do my best to lend a hand.” 

The mere sound of that hearty voice comforted 
Christie, and gave her courage to introduce the little 
fiction under which she had decided to defraud Mrs. 
Wilkins of her advice. So she helped herself to a 
very fragmentary blue sock and a big needle, that she 
might have employment for her eyes, as they were not 


326 WORK. 


so obedient as her tongue, and then began in as easy @ 
tone as she could assume. 

“ Well, you see a friend of mine wants my advice on 
a very serious matter, and I really don’t know what to 
give her. It is strictly confidential, you know, so I 
won’t mention any names, but just set the case before 
you and get your opinion, for I’ve great faith in your 
sensible way of looking at things.” 

“'Thanky, dear, you’r welcome to my ’pinion ef it’s 
wuth any thing. Be these folks you tell of young?” 
asked Mrs. Wilkins, with evident relish for the mys- 
tery. 

“ No, the woman is past thirty, and the man ’most 
forty, I believe,’ said Christie, darning away in some 
trepidation at having taken the first plunge. 

“ My patience! ain’t the creater old enough to know 
her own mind? for I s’pose she’s the one in the quan-. 
derry ?” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins, looking over her 
spectacles with dangerously keen eyes. 

“The case is this,” said Christie, in guilty haste. 
“The ‘creature’ is poor and nobody, the man rich and 
of good family, so you see it’s rather hard for her to 
decide.” 

“No, I don’t see nothin’ of the sort,” returned blunt 
Mrs. Wilkins. “Ef she loves the man, take him: ef 
she don’t, give him the mittin and done with it. Money 
and friends and family ain’t much to do with the mat- 
ter accordin’ to my view. It’s jest a plain question 
betwixt them two. Ef it takes much settlin’ they ’d 
better let it alone.” 

“She doesn’t love him as much as she might, I fancy, 
but she is tired of grubbing along alone. He is very 


WHICH? 327 


fond of her, and very rich; and it would be a fine thing 
for her in a worldly way, I’m sure.” 

“Qh, she’s goin’ to marry for a livin’ is she? Wal, 
now I’d ruther one of my girls should grub the wust 
kind all their days than do that. Hows’ever, it may 
suit some folks ef they ain’t got much heart, and is 
contented with fine clothes, nice vittles, and handsome 
farnitoor. Selfish, cold, silly kinder women might git 
on, I dare say; but I shouldn’t think any friend of 
your’n would be one of that sort.” — 

“ But she might do a great deal of good, and make 
others happy even if she was not so herself.” 

“She might, but I doubt it, for money got that way 
wouldn’t prosper wal. Mis’able folks ain’t half so 
charitable as happy ones; and I don’t believe five dol- 
lars from one of ’em would go half so fur, or be half 
so comfortin’ as a kind word straight out of a cheerful 
heart. I know some thinks that is a dreadful smart 
thing to do; but Z don’t, and ef any one wants to goa 
sacrificin’ herself for the good of others, there ’s better 
ways of doin’ it than startin’ with a lie in her mouth.” 

Mrs. Wilkins spoke warmly; for Christie’s face made 
her fiction perfectly transparent, though the good woman 
with true delicacy showed no sign of intelligence on 
that point. 

“Then you wouldn’t advise my friend to say yes?” 

“Sakes alive, no! I’d say to her as I did to my 
younger sisters when their courtin’ time come: ‘Jest 
be sure you’re right as to there bein’ love enough, then 
go ahead, and the Lord will bless you.” 

“Did they follow your advice ?” 

“ They did, and both is prosperin’ in different ways. 


328 WORK. 


Gusty, she found she was well on’t for love, so she mar- 
ried, though Samuel Buck was poor, and they ’re happy 
as can be a workin’ up together, same as Lisha and me 
did. Addy, she cale’lated she wan’t satisfied somehow, 
so she didn’t marry, though James Miller was wal off; 
and she’s kep stiddy to her trade, and ain’t never 
repented. There’sa sight said and writ about such 

things,” continued Mrs. Wilkins, rambling on to sing 
Christie time to think; “but I’ve an idee that women’s 

hearts is to be trusted ef they ain’t been taught all 

wrong. Jest let em remember that they take a hus-- 
band for wuss as well as better (and there’s a sight of 

wuss in this tryin’ world for some on us), and be ready 

to do their part patient and faithful, and I ain’t a 

grain afraid but what they ’ll be fetched through, always 

pervidin’ they love the man and not his money.” 

There was a pause after that last speech, and Christie 
felt as if her perplexity was clearing away very fast ; for 
Mrs. Wilkins’s plain talk seemed to show her things in 
their true light, with all the illusions of false senti- 
ment and false reasoning stripped away. She felt 
clearer and stronger already, and as if she could make 
up her mind very soon when one other point had been 
discussed. 

“JT fancy my friend is somewhat influenced by the 
fact that this man loved and asked her to marry him 
some years ago. He has not forgotten her, and this 
touches her heart more than any thing else. It seems 
as if his love must be genuine to last so long, and not 
to mind her poverty, want of beauty, and accomplish- 
ments; for he is a proud and fastidious man.” 

“JT think wal of him for that!” said Mrs. Wilkins, 


WHICH ? 829 


approvingly ; “ but I guess she’s wuth all he gives her, 
for there must be somethin’ pretty gennywin’ in her 
to make him overlook her lacks and hold on so stiddy. 
It don’t alter her side of the case one mite though; for 
love is love, and ef she ain’t got it, he’d better not 
take gratitude instid, but sheer off and leave her for 
somebody else.” 

“ Nobody else wants her!” broke from Christie like 
an involuntary ery of pain; then she hid her face by 
stooping to gather up the avalanche of hosiery which 
fell from her lap to the floor. 

“She can’t be sure of that,” said Mrs. Wilkins 
cheerily, though her spectacles were dim with sudden 
mist. “I know there’s a mate for her somewheres, so 
shed better wait a spell and trust in Providence. It 
wouldn’t be so pleasant to see the right one come along 
after she’d went and took the wrong one in a hurry: 
would it? | aie is always safe, and time needn’t 
be wasted Fettin’ or bewailin’; for the Lord knows 
there’s a sight of good works sufferin’ to be done, and 
single women has the best_chance at ’em.” 
~ “T’ve accomplished one good work at any rate; and, 
small as it is, I feel better for it. Give this sock to 
your husband, and tell him his wife sets a good example 
both by precept and practice to other women, married 
or single. Thank you very much, both for myself and 
my friend, who shall profit by your advice,” said Chris- 
tie, feeling that she had better go before she told every 
thing. 

“JT hope she will,” returned Mrs. Wilkins, as her 
guest went away with a much happier face than the 
one she brought. ‘ And ef I know her, which I think 


830 WORK. 


I do, she'll find that Cinthy Wilkins ain’t fur from 
right, ef her experience is good for any thing,” added 
the matron with a sigh, and a glance at a dingy photo- 
graph of her Lisha on the wall, a sigh that seemed to 
say there had been a good deal of “ wuss” in her bar- 
gain, though she was too loyal to confess it. 

Something in Christie’s face struck Mr. Fletcher at 
once when he appeared that evening. He had some- 
times found her cold and quiet, often gay and capri- 
cious, usually earnest and cordial, with a wistful look 
that searched his face and both won and checked him 
by its mute appeal, seeming to say, “ Wait a little till 
I have taught my heart to answer as you wish.” 

To-night her eyes shunned his, and when he caught 
a glimpse of them they were full of a soft trouble; 
her manner was kinder than ever before, and yet it 
made him anxious, for there was a resolute expres- 
sion about her lips even when she smiled, and though 
he ventured upon allusions to the past hitherto tacitly 
avoided, she listened as if it had no tender charm for 
her. 

Being thoroughly in earnest now, Mr. Fletcher re- 
solved to ask the momentous question again without de- 
lay. David was not there, and had not been for several 
weeks, another thorn in Christie’s heart, though she 
showed no sign of regret, and said to herself, “It is 
better so.” His absence left Fletcher master of the 
field, and he seized the propitious moment. — 

“Will you show me the new picture? Mr. Power 
spoke of it, but I do not like to trouble him.” 

“With pleasure,” and Christie led the way to a 
little room where the newly arrived gift was placed. 


WHICH 2? d38l 


She knew what was coming, but was ready, and felt 
a tragic sort of satisfaction in the thought of all she 
was relinquishing for love of David. 

No one was in the room, but a fine copy of Michael 
Angelo’s Fates hung on the wall, looking down at them 
with weird significance. : 

“They look as if they would give a stern answer 

‘to any questioning of ours,” Mr. Fletcher said, after a 
glance of affected interest. 

“They would give a true one I fancy,” answered 
Christie, shading her eyes as if to see the better. 

“Jd rather question a younger, fairer Fate, hoping 
that she will give me an answer both true and kind. 
May I, Christie ?” 

“T will be true but —I cannot be kind.” It cost her 
much to say that; yet she did it steadily, though he 
held her hand in both his own, and waited for her 
words with ardent expectation. 

“ Not yet perhaps, — but in time, when I have proved 
how sincere my love is, how entire my repentance for 
the ungenerous words you have not forgotten. I wanted 
you then for my own sake, now I want you for yourself, 
because I love and honor you above all women. I tried 
to forget you, but I could not; and all these years have 
carried in my heart a very tender memory of the girl 
who dared to tell me that all I could offer her was 
not worth her love.” 

“T was mistaken,” began Christie, finding this wooing 
much harder to withstand than the other. 

“No, you were right: I felt it then and resented it, 
but I owned it later, and regretted it more bitterly than 
I can tell. I’m not worthy of you; I never shall be: but 


332 WORK. 


I’ve loved you for five years without hope, and I’ll 
wait five more if in the end you will come to me. 
Christie, I need you very much!” 

If Mr. Fletcher had gone down upon his knees and 
poured out the most ardent protestations that ever left 
a lover’s lips, it would not have touched her as did that 
last little appeal, uttered with a break in the voice that 
once was so proud and was so humble now. 

“Forgive me!” she cried, looking up at him with 
real respect in her face, and real remorse smiting her 
conscience. “ Forgive me! I have misled you and my- 
self. I tried to love you: I was grateful for your regard, 
touched by your fidelity, and I hoped I might repay it ; 
but I cannot! I cannot!” 

reo yer 

Such a hard question! She owed him all the truth, © 
yet how could she tell it? She could not in words, 
but her face did, for the color rose and burned on 
cheeks and forehead with painful fervor; her eyes 
fell, and her lips trembled as if endeavoring to keep 
down the secret that was escaping against her will. 
A moment of silence as Mr. Fletcher searched for 
the truth and found it; then he said with such sharp 
pain in his voice that Christie’s heart ached at the 
sound : 

“T see: I am too late?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And there is no hope?” 

“ None.” 

“Then there is nothing more for me to say but 
good-by. May you be happy.” 

“JT shall not be;—I have no hope; —I only try to be 


WHICH? 883 


true to you and to myself. Oh, believe it, and pity me 
as I do you!” 

As the words broke from Christie, she covered up 
her face, bowed down with the weight of remorse 
that made her long to atone for what she had done 
by any self-humiliation. 

Mr. Fletcher was at his best at that moment; for 
real love ennobles the worst and weakest while it 
lasts: but he could not resist the temptation that con- 
fession offered him. He tried to be generous, but the 
genuine virtue was not in him; he did want Christie 
very much, and the knowledge of a rival in her heart 
only made her the dearer. 

“I’m not content with your pity, sweet as it is: I 
want your love, and I believe that I might earn it 
if you would let me try. You are all alone, and life is 
hard to you: come to me and let me make jt happier. 
I’ll be satisfied with friendship till you can give me 
more.” 

He said this very tenderly, caressing the bent head 
while he spoke, and trying to express by tone and 
gesture how eagerly he longed to receive and cherish 
what that other man neglected. . 

Christie felt this to her heart’s core, and for a moment 
longed to end the struggle, say, “Take me,” and accept 
the shadow for the substance. But those last words of 
his vividly recalled the compact made with David that 
happy birthday night. How could she be his friend if 
she was Mr. Fletcher’s wife? She knew she could not 
‘be true to both, while her heart reversed the sentiment 
she then would owe them: David’s friendship was 
dearer than Philip’s love, and she would keep it at all 


384 WORK. 


costs. These thoughts flashed through her mind in the 
drawing of a breath, and she looked up, saying steadily 
in spite of wet eyes and still burning cheeks : 

“Hope nothing; wait for nothing from me. I will 
have no more delusions for either of us: it is weak 
and wicked, for I know I shall not change. Some time 
we may venture to be friends perhaps, but not now. 
Forgive me, and be sure I shall suffer more than you 
for this mistake of mine.” 

When she had denied his suit before he had been 
ungenerous and angry; for his pride was hurt and his 
will thwarted : now his heart bled and hope died hard ; 
but all that was manliest in him rose to help him bear 
the loss, for this love was genuine, and made him both 
just and kind. His face was pale with the pain of that 
fruitless passion, and his voice betrayed how hard he 
strove for self-control, as he said hurriedly : 

“You need not suffer: this mistake has given me 
the happiest hours of my life, and I am better for hav- 
ing known so sweet and true a woman. God bless you, 
Christie!” and with a quick embrace that startled her 
by its suddenness and strength he left her, standing 
there alone before the three grim Fates. 


CHAPTER XV. 
MIDSUMMER. 


se OW it is all over. I shall never have another 

‘chance like that, and must make up my mind to 
be a lonely and laborious spinster all my life. Youth 
is going fast, and I have little in myself to attract or 
win, though David did call me ‘good and lovely.’ 
Ah, well, I’ll try to deserve his praise, and not let dis- 
appointment sour or sadden me. Better to hope and 
wait all my life than marry without love.” 

Christie often said this to herself during the hard 
days that followed Mr. Fletcher’s disappearance; a 
disappearance, by the way, which caused Mr. Power 
much satisfaction, though he only betrayed it by added 
kindness to Christie, and in his manner an increased 
respect very comforting to her. 

But she missed her lover, for nothing now broke up 
the monotony of a useful life. She had enjoyed that 
little episode; for it had lent romance to every thing 
while it lasted, even the charity basket with which she 
went her rounds; for Mr. Fletcher often met her by ac- 
cident apparently, and carried it as if to prove the sin- 
cerity of his devotion. No bouquets came now; no 
graceful little notes with books or invitations to some 
coveted pleasure; no dangerously delightful evenings 
in the recess, where, for a time, she felt and used the 


336 WORK. 


power which to a woman is so full of subtle satisfaction ; 
no bitter-sweet hopes; no exciting dreams of what 
might be with the utterance of a word; no soft uncer- 
tainty to give a charm to every hour that passed. 
Nothing but daily duties, a little leisure that hung 
heavy on her hands with no hope to stimulate, no 
lover to lighten it, and a sore, sad heart that would 
clamor for its right; and even when pride silenced it 
ached on with the dull pain which only time and pa- 
tience have the power to heal. 

But as those weeks went slowly by, she began to 

discover some of the miracles true love can work. She 
thought she had laid it in its grave; but an angel 
rolled the stone away, and the lost passion rose stronger, 
purer, and more beautiful than when she buried it with 
bitter tears. A spirit now, fed by no hope, warmed by 
no tenderness, clothed in no fond delusion; the vital 
soul of love which outlives the fairest, noblest form 
humanity can give it, and sits among the ruins singing 
the immortal hymn of consolation the Great Musician 
taught. 
(Christie felt this strange comfort resting like a baby 
in her lonely bosom, \cherished and plessed it; wonder- 
ing while she rejoiced, and soon perceiving with the 
swift instinct of a woman, that this was a lesson, hard 
to learn, but infinitely precious, helpful, and sustaining 
when once gained. She was not happy, only patient ; 
not hopeful, but trusting; and when life looked dark 
and barren without, she went away into that inner 
world of deep feeling, high thought, and earnest aspi- 
ration; which is a never-failing refuge to those whose 
experience has built within them 


MIDSUMMER. SoT 


‘The nunnery of a chaste heart and quiet mind.” 


Some women live fast; and Christie fought her battle, 
won her victory, and found peace declared during that 
winter: for her loyalty to love brought its own re- 
ward in time, giving her the tranquil steadfastness whick 
comes to those who submit and ask nothing but forti- 
tude. 

She had seen little of David, except at church, and 
began to regard him almost as one might a statue on 
a tomb, the marble effigy of the beloved dead below; 
for the sweet old friendship was only a pale shadow 
now. He always found her out, gave her the posy she 
best liked, said cheerfully, “ How goes it, Christie?” 
‘and she always answered, “Good-morning, David. I 
am well and busy, thank you.” Then they sat together 
listening to Mr. Power, sung from the same _ book, 
walked a little way together, and parted for another 
week with a hand-shake for good-by. 

Christie often wondered what prayers David prayed 
when he sat so still with his face hidden by his hand, 
and looked up with such a clear and steady look when 
he had done. She tried to do the same; but her 
thoughts would wander to the motionless gray figure 
beside her, and she felt as if peace and strength uncon- 
sciously flowed from it to sustain and comfort her. 
Some of her happiest moments were those she spent 
sitting there, pale and silent, with absent eyes, and lips 
that trembled now and then, hidden by the flowers held 
before them, kissed covertly, and kept like relics long 
after they were dead. 

One bitter drop always marred the pleasure of that 


15 Vv 


338 WORK. 


hour; for when she had asked for Mrs. Sterling, and 
sent her love, she forced herself to say kindly: 

“ And Kitty, is she doing well?” 

“Capitally; come and see how she has improved; 
we are quite proud of her.” 

ty “Twill if I can find time. It’s a hard winter and 

~~ we have so much to do,” she would answer smiling, 

and then go home to struggle back into the patient 
mood she tried to make habitual. 

But she seldom made time to go and see Kitty’s 
improvement; and, when she did run out for an hour 
she failed to discover any thing, except that the girl was 
prettier and more coquettish than ever, and assumed 
airs of superiority that tried Christie very much. 

“Tam ready for any thing,” she always said with a 
resolute air after one of these visits; but, when the 
time seemed to have come she was not so ready as she 
fancied. 

Passing out of a store one day, she saw Kitty all in 
her best, buying white gloves with a most important 
air. ‘That looks suspicious,” she thought, and could 
not resist speaking. 

“ All well at home?” she asked. 

“ Grandma and I have been alone for nearly a week; 
David went off on business; but he’s back now and — 
oh, my goodness! I forgot: I’m not to tell a soul 
yet;” and Kitty pursed up her lips, looking quite op- 
pressed with some great secret. 

“ Bless me, how mysterious! Well, I won’t ask any 
dangerous questions, only tell me if the dear old lady 
is well,” said Christie, desperately curious, but too 
proud to show it. 


MIDSUMMER. 839 


“She ’s well, but rene upset by what ’s hap- 
pened; well she may be.” And Isitty shook her head 
with a look of mingled mystery and malicious merri- 
ment. 

“Mr. Sterling is all right I hope?” Christie never 
called him David to Kitty; so that impertinent little 
person took especial pains to speak familiarly, some- 
times even fondly of him to Christie. | 

“ Dear fellow! he’s so happy he don’t know what to 
do with himself. I just wish you could see him go 
round smiling, and singing, and looking as if he’d like 
to dance.” 

_ “That looks as if he was going to get a chance to do 
it,” said Christie, with a glance at the gloves, as Kitty 
turned from the counter. 

“So he is!” laughed Kitty, patting the little parcel 
with a joyful face. 

“T do believe you are going to be married:” ex- 
claimed Christie, half distracted with curiosity. 

“Tam, but not to Miles. Now don’t you say another 
word, for I’m dying to tell, and I promised I wouldn’t. 
David wants to do it himself. By-by.” And Kitty 
hurried away, leaving Christie as pale as if she had seen 
a ghost at noonday. 

‘She had; for the thought of David’s marrying Kitty 
had Sa cinted her all one months, and now she was 
quite sure the blow had come. 

“If she was only a nobler woman I could bear it 
better; but I am sure he will regret it when the first 
illusion is past. I fancy she reminds him of his lost 
Letty, and so he thinks he loves her. I pray he may 
be happy, and I hope it will be over soon,” thought 


340 WORK. 


Christie, with a groan, as she trudged away to carry 
comfort to those whose woes could be relieved by tea 
and sugar, flannel petticoats, and orders for a ton of 
coal. 

It was over soon, but not as Christie had expected. 

That evening Mr. Power was called away, and she 
sat alone, bravely trying to forget suspense and grief in 
copying the record of her last month’s labor. But she 
made sad work of it; for her’mind was full of David 
and his wife, so happy in the little home which had 
grown doubly dear to her since she left it. No wonder 
then that she put down “two dozen children” to Mrs. 
Flanagan, and “four knit hoods” with the measles; 
or that a great blot fell upon “twenty yards red flan- 
nel,” as the pen dropped from the hands she clasped 
together; saying with all the fervor of true self-abnega- 
tion: “I hope he will be happy; oh, I hope he will be 
happy!” 7 
Ve If ever woman deserved reward for patient endeavor, 
hard-won submission, and unselfish love, Christie did 
then/ And she received it in full measure; for the 
dear Lord requites some faithful hearts, blesses some 
lives that seem set apart for silent pain and solitary 
labor. 

Snow was falling fast, and a bitter wind moaned 
without; the house was very still, and nothing stirred 
in the room but the flames dancing on the hearth, and 
the thin hand moving to and fro among the records of 
a useful life. 

Suddenly the bell rang loudly and repeatedly, as if 
the new-comer was impatient of delay. Christie paused 
to listen. It was not Mr. Power’s ring, not his voice in 


: 
MIDSUMMER. 341 


she hall below, not his step that came leaping up the 
stairs, nor his hand that threw wide the door. She 
<new them all, and her heart stood still an instant; 
then she gathered up her strength, said low to herself, 
* Now it is coming,” and was ready for the truth, with 
a colorless face; eyes unnaturally bright and fixed; and 
one hand on her breast, as if to hold in check the rebel- 
lious heart that would throb so fast. 

It was David who came in with such impetuosity. 
Snow-flakes shone in his hair; the glow of the keen 
wind was on his cheek, a smile on his lips, and in his 
eyes an expression she had never seen before. Happi- 
ness, touched with the shadow of some past pain; 
doubt and desire; gratitude and love,— all seemed to 
meet and mingle in it; while, about the whole man, 
was the free and ardent air of one relieved from some 
heavy burden, released from some long captivity. 

“OQ David, what is it?” cried Christie, as he stood 
looking at her with this strange look. 

“ News, Christie! such happy news I can’t find 
words to tell them,” he answered, coming nearer, but 
too absorbed in his own emotion to heed hers. 

She drew a long breath and pressed her hand a little 
heavier on her breast, as she said, with the ghost of a 
smile, more pathetic than the saddest tears : 

“ T ouess it, David.” 

“How?” he demanded, as if defrauded of a joy he 
had set his heart upon. 

“T met Kitty, — she told me nothing, — but her face 
betrayed what I have long suspected.” 

David laughed, such a glad yet scornful laugh, and, 
snatching a little miniature from his pocket, offered 


342 WORK. 


it, saying, with the new impetuosity that changed him 
SO: | 

“« That is the daughter I have found for my mother. ~ 
You know her, — you love her; and you will not be — 
ashamed to welcome her, I think.” 

Christie took it; saw a faded, time-worn likeness of : 
a young girl’s happy face; a face strangely familiar, 
yet, for a moment, she groped to find the name 
belonging to it. Then memory helped her; and she 
said, half incredulously, half joyfully : 

“Ts it my Rachel?” 

“It is my Letty!” cried David, with an accent of — 
such mingled love and sorrow, remorse and joy, that 
Christie seemed to hear in it the death-knell of her | 
faith in him. The picture fell from the hands she put 
up, as if to ward off some heavy blow, and her voice 
was sharp with reproachful anguish, as she cried: 

“ O David, David, any thing but that!” 

An instant he seemed bewildered, then the meaning 
of the grief in her face flashed on him, and his own 
grew white with indignant repudiation of the thought 
that daunted her; but he only said with the stern 
brevity of truth: 

“ Letty is my sister.” 

“Forgive me,—how could I know? Oh, thank 
God! thank God!” and, dropping down upon a chair, 
Christie broke into a passion of the happiest tears she 
ever shed. 

David stood beside her silent, till the first irrepress- 
ible paroxysm was over; then, while she sat weeping 
softly, quite bowed down by emotion, he said, sadly 
now, not sternly: 


—_—-.  '- 


MIDSUMMER. 3438 


“You could not know, because we hid the truth so 
carefully. I have no right to resent that belief of 
yours, for I did wrong my poor Letty, almost as much 
as that lover of hers, who, being dead, I do not curse. 
Let me tell you every thing, Christie, before I ask your 
respect and confidence again. I never deserved them, 
but I tried to; for they were very precious to me.” 

He paused a moment, then went on rapidly, as if 
anxious to accomplish a hard task; and Christie forgot 
to weep while listening breathlessly. 

“ Letty was the pride of my heart; and I loved her 
very dearly, for she was all I had. Such a pretty child; 
such a gay, sweet girl; how could I help it, when she 
‘was so fond of me? We were poor then, — poorer 
than now, — and she grew restless; tired of hard work; 
longed for a little pleasure, and could not bear to waste 
her youth and beauty in that dull town. I did not 
blame my little girl; but I could not help her, for I 
was tugging away to fill father’s place, he being broken 
down and helpless. She wanted to go away and sup- 
port herself. You know the feeling; and I need not 
tell you how the proud, high-hearted creature hated 
dependence, even on a brother who would have worked 
his soul out for her. She would go, and we had faith 
in her. For a time she did bravely; but life was too 
hard for her; pleasure too alluring, and, when tempta- 
tion came in the guise of love, she could not resist. 
One dreadful day, news came that she was gone, never 
to come back, my innocent little Letty, any more.” 

His voice failed there, and he walked fast through 
the room, as if the memory of that bitter day was still 
unbearable. Christie could not speak for very pity; 


344 WORK. 


and he soon continued, pacing restlessly before her, as 
he had often done when she sat by, wondering what 
unquiet spirit drove him to and fro: 

“That was the beginning of my trouble; but not — 
the worst of it: God forgive me, not the worst! 
Father was.very feeble, and the shock killed him; 
mother’s heart was nearly broken, and all the happiness — 
was taken out of life for me. But I could bear it, 
heavy as the blow was, for I had no part in that sin 
and sorrow. A year later, there came a letter from 
Letty, —a penitent, imploring, little letter, asking to 
be forgiven and taken home, for her lover was dead, 
and she alone in a foreign land. How would you 
answer such a letter, Christie?” 

“As you did; saying: ‘Come home and let us com- 
fort you.” 

“T said: ‘ You have.killed your father; broken your 
mother’s heart; ruined your brother’s hopes, and dis- 
graced your family. You no longer have a home with 
us; and we never want to see your face again, ” 

“O David, that was cruel!” 

“T said you did not know me; now you see how 
deceived you have been. A stern, resentful devil pos- 
sessed me then, and I obeyed it. I was very proud; 
full of ambitious plans and jealous love for the few I 
took into my heart. Letty had brought a stain upon 
our honest name that time could never wash away; 
had quenched my hopes in despair and shame; had 
made home desolate, and destroyed my faith in every 
thing; for whom could I trust, when she, the nearest 
and dearest creature in the world, deceived and de- 
serted me. I could not forgive; wrath burned hot 


MIDSUMMER. 845 


within me, and the desire for retribution would not be 
appeased till those cruel words were said. The retri- 
bution and remorse came swift and sure; but they 
came most heavily to me.” 

Still standing where he had paused abruptly as he 
asked his question, David wrung his strong hands to- 
gether with a gesture of passionate regret, while his 
face grew sharp with the remembered suffering of the 
years he had given to the atonement of that wrong. 

Christie put her own hand on those clenched ones, 
and whispered softly : 

“ Don’t tell me any more now: I can wait.” 

“JT must, and you must listen! I’ve longed to tell 
you, but I was afraid; now, you shall know every 
thing, and then decide if you can forgive me for Letty’s 
sake,” he said, so resolutely that she listened with a 
face full of mute compassion. 

“That little letter came to me; I never told my 
mother, but answered it, and kept silent till news 
arrived that the ship in which Letty had taken passage 
was lost. Remorse had been tugging at my heart; 
and, when I knew that she was dead, I forgave her 
with a vain forgiveness, and mourned for my darling, 
as if she had never left me. I told my mother then, 
and she did not utter one reproach; but age seemed to 
fall upon her all at once, and the pathetic quietude you 
see. 

“Then, but for her, I should have been desperate ; 
for day and night Letty’s face haunted me; Letty’s 
voice cried: ‘Take me home!’ and every word of 
that imploring letter burned before my eyes as if writ- 
ten in fire. Do you wonder now that I hid myself; 

15* 


346 WORK. 


that I had no heart to try for any honorable place in 
the world, and only struggled to forget, only hoped to 
expiate my sin?” 

With his head bowed down upon his breast, David 
stood silent, asking himself if he had even now done 
enough to win the reward he coveted. Christie’s voice 
seemed to answer him; for she said, with heartfelt grati- 
tude and respect : 

“Surely you have atoned for that harshness to one 
woman by years of devotion to many. Was it this 
that made you ‘a brother of girls, as Mr. Power once 
called you? And, when Fasked what he meant, he said 
the Arabs call a man that who has ‘a clean heart to 
love all women as his sisters, and strength and courage 
to fight for their protection !’” 

She hoped to lighten his trouble a little, and spoke 
with a smile that was like cordial to poor David. 

“ Yes,” he said, lifting his head again. “TI tried to 
be that, and, for Letty’s sake, had pity on the most for- 
lorn, patience with the most abandoned ; always remem- 
bering that she might have been what they were, if 
death had not been more merciful than I.” 

“But she was not dead: she was alive and working 
as bravely as you. Ah, how little I thought, when I 
loved Rachel, and she loved me, that we should ever 
meet so happily as we soon shall. Tell me how you 
found her? Does she know I am the woman she once 
saved? Tell me all about her; and tell it fast,” prayed 
Christie, getting excited, as she more fully grasped the 
happy fact that Rachel and Letty were one. 

David came nearer, and his face kindled as he spoke. 
“The ship sailed without her; she came later; and, 


MIDSUMMER. 347 


finding that her name was among the lost, she did not 
deny it, for she was dead to us, and decided to remain 
so till she had earned the right to be forgiven. You 
know how she lived and worked, stood firm with no 
one to befriend her till you came, and, by years of 
patient well-doing, washed away her single sin. If 
any one dares think I am ashamed to own her now, let 
him know what cause I have to be proud of her; let 
him come and see how tenderly I love her; how 
devoutly I thank God for permitting me to find and 
bring my little Letty home.” 

Only the snow-flakes drifting against the window- 
pane, and the wailing of the wind, was heard for a 
moment; then David added, with brightening eyes and 
a glad voice: 

“ T went into a hospital while away, to look after one 
of my poor girls who had been doing well till illness 
brought her there. As I was passing out I saw a sleep- 
ing face, and stopped involuntarily : it was so like Letty’s. 
I never doubted she was dead; the name over the bed 
was not hers; the face was sadly altered from the happy, 
rosy one I knew, but it held me fast; and as I paused 
the eyes opened, — Letty’s own soft eyes, — they saw 
me, and, as if I was the figure of a dream, she smiled, 
put up her arms and said, just as she used to say, a 
child, when I woke her in her little bed —‘ Why, 
Davy!’ —TI can’t tell any more,—only that when I 
brought her home and put her in mother’s arms, I felt 
as if I was forgiven at last.” 

He broke down there, and went and stood behind the 
window curtains, letting no one see the grateful tears 
that washed away the bitterness of those long years. 


— 


348 WORK. 


Christie had taken up the miniature and was looking 
at it, while her heart sang for joy that the lost was 
found, when David came back to her, wearing the same | 
look she had seen the night she listened among the 
cloaks. Moved and happy, with eager eyes and ardent 
manner, yet behind it all a pale expectancy as if some 
great crisis was at hand : 

“ Christie, I never can forget that when all others, 
even I, cast Letty off, you comforted and saved her. 
What can I do to thank you for it?” 

“ Be my friend, and let me be hers again,” she an- 
swered, too deeply moved to think of any private hope 
or pain. 

“Then the past, now that you know it all, does not 
change your heart to us?” 

“It only makes you dearer.” 

“ And if I asked you to come back to the home that 
has been desolate since you went, would you come?” 

“ Gladly, David.” 

“ And if I dared to say I loved you?” 

She only looked at him with a quick rising light and 
warmth over her whole face; he stretched both arms 
to her, and, going to him, Christie gave her answer 


silently. 


Lovers usually ascend straight into the seventh 
heaven for a time: unfortunately they cannot stay 
long; the air is too rarefied, the light too brilliant, the 
fhre too ethereal, and they are forced to come down to 
mundane things, as larks drop from heaven’s gate into 
their grassy nests. David was summoned from that 
blissful region, after a brief enjoyment of its divine 
delights, by Christie, who looked up from her new refuge 


\ with the abrupt question : 


MIDSUMMER. 349 


“« What becomes of Kitty ?” 

He regarded her with a dazed expression for an 
instant, for she had been speaking the delightful lan- 
guage of lips and eyes that lovers use, and the old 
tongue sounded harsh to him. 

“She is safe with her futher, and is to marry the 
‘other one’ next week.” 

“Heaven be praised!” ejaculated Christie, so fer- 
vently that David looked suddenly enlightened and 
much amused, as he said quickly : 

“ What becomes of Fletcher?” 

“He’s safely out of the way, and I sincerely hope 
he will marry some ‘ other one’ as soon as possible.” 

“ Christie, you were jealous of that girl.” 

“David, you were jealous of that man.” 

Then they both burst out laughing like two children, 
for heavy burdens had been lifted off their hearts and 
they were bubbling over with happiness. 

“ But truly, David, weren’t you a little jealous of P. 
F.?” persisted Christie, feeling an intense desire to ask 
all manner of harassing questions, with the agreeable 
certainty that they would be fully answered. 

“ Desperately jealous. You were so kind, so gay, so 
altogether charming when with him, that I could not 
stand by and see it, so I kept away. Why were you 
never so to me?” 

“ Because you never showed that you cared for me, 
and he did. But it was wrong in me to do it, and I 
repent of it heartily ; for it hurt him more than I thought 
it would when the experiment failed. I truly tried to 
love him, but I couldn’t.” 

“ Yet he had so much to offer, and could give you all 


850 WORK. 


you most enjoy. It is very singular that you failed to 
care for him, and preferred a poor old fellow like me,” 
said David, beaming at her like a beatified man. 

“JT do. loye luxury and pleasure but I love indepen- 
dence more. \I’m happier poking in the dirt with you 
than I should be driving in a fine carriage with ‘ that 
piece of elegance’ as Mr. Power called him; prouder 
of being your wife than his; and none of the costly 
things he offered me were half so precious in my sight 
as your little nosegays, now mouldering away in my 
treasure-box upstairs. Why, Davy, I’ve longed more 
intensely for the right to push up the curly lock that is 
always tumbling into your eyes, than for Philip’s whole 
fortune. May I do it now?” 

“You may,” and Christie did it with a tender satis- 
faction that made David love her the more, though he 
laughed like a boy at the womanly whim. 

“ And so you thought I cared for Kitty?” he said 
presently, taking his turn at the new game. . 

“ How could I help it when she was so young and 
pretty and fond of you?” | 

“ Was she?” innocently. 

“ Didn’t you see it? How blind men are!” 

“ Not always.” 

“ David, did you see that Z cared for you?” asked 
Christie, turning crimson under the significant glance he 
gave her. 

“]T wish I had; I confess I once or twice fancied that 
I caught glimpses of bliss round the corner, as it were; 
but, before I could decide, the glimpses vanished, and I 
was very sure I was a conceited coxcomb to think it 
fora moment. It was very hard, and yet I was glad.” 


MIDSUMMER. ool 


“Glad!” 

“ Yes, because I had made a sort of vow that I’d 
never love or marry as a punishment for my cruelty to 
Letty.” 

“That was wrong, David.” 

“T see it now; but it was not hard to keep that fool- 
ish vow till you came; and you see I’ve broken it 
without a shadow of regret to-night.” 

“ You might have done it months ago and saved me 
so much woe if you had not been a dear, modest, mor- 
bidly conscientious bat,” sighed Christie, pleased and 
proud to learn her power, yet sorry for the long 
delay. 

“Thank you, love. You see I didn’t find out why 
I liked my friend so well till I lost her. I had just 
begun to feel that you were very dear, — for after the 
birthday you were like an angel in the house, Christie, 
— when you changed all at once, and I thought you sus- 
pected me, and didn’t like it. Your running away when 
Kitty came confirmed my fear; then in came that— 
would you mind if I said — confounded Fletcher?” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ Well, as he didn’t win, I won’t be hard on him; 
but I gave up then and had a tough time of it; espe- 
cially that first night when this splendid lover appeared 
and received such a kind welcome.” 

Christie saw the strong hand that lay on David’s 
knee clenched slowly, as he knit his brows with a grim 
look, plainly showing that he was not what she was 
inclined to think him,’a perfect saint. 

“Oh, my heart! and there I was loving you so dearly 
all the time, and you wouldn’t see or speak or under- 


352 WORK. 


stand, but went away, left me to torment all three of 
us,” cried Christie with a tragic gesture. 

“ My dearest girl, did you ever know a man in love 
do, say, or think the right thing at the right time? JZ 
never did,” said David, so penitently that she forgave 
him on the spot. 

“ Never mind, dear. It has taught us the worth of 
love, and perhaps we are the better for the seeming 
waste of precious time. Now I’ve not only got you 
but Letty also, and your mother is mine in very truth. 
Ah, how tich I am!” 

“But I thought it was all over with me when I 
found Letty, because, seeing no more of Fletcher, I 
had begun to hope again, and when she came back 
to me I knew my home must be hers, yet feared you 
would refuse to share it if you knew all. You are 
very proud, and the purest-hearted woman I ever 
knew.” 

“ And if I had refused, you would have let me go and 
held fast to Letty ?” 

“ Yes, for I owe her every thing.” 

“ You should have known me better, David. But I 
don’t refuse, and there is no need to choose between 
us.” 

“ No, thank heaven, and you, my Christie! Imagine 
what I felt when Letty told me all you had been to 
her. If any thing could make me love you more than I 
now do, it would be that! No, don’t hide your face ; 
I like to see it blush and smile and turn to me confid- 
ingly, as it has not done all these long months.” 

“Did Letty tell you what she had done for me?” 
asked Christie, looking more like a rose than ever Kitty 
did. 


MIDSUMMER. 3598 


“She told me every thing, and wished me to tell you 
all her story, even the saddest part of it. I’d better 
do it now before you meet again.” 

He paused as if the tale was hard to tell; but Chris- 
tie put her hand on his lips saying softly : 

“ Never tell it; let her past be as sacred as if she 
were dead. She was my friend when I had no other: 
she is my dear sister now, and nothing can ever change 
the love between us.” 

If she had thought David’s face beautiful with grati- 
tude when he told the happier portions of that history, 
she found it doubly so when she spared him the recital 
of its darkest chapter, and bade him “ leave the rest to 
silence.” 

“ Now you will come home? Mother wants you, 
Letty longs for you, and I have got and mean to keep 
you all my life, God willing!” 

“Td better die to-night and make a blessed end, for 
so much happiness is hardly possible in a world of 
woe,” answered Christie to that fervent invitation. 

“ We shall be married very soon, take a wedding 
trip to any part of the world you like, and our honey- 
moon will last for ever, Mrs. Sterling, Jr.,” said David, 
soaring away into the future with sublime disregard of 
obstacles. 

Before Christie could get her breath after that some- 
what startling announcement, Mr. Power appeared, 
took in the situation at a glance, gave them a smile that 
was a benediction, and said heartily as he offered a hand 
to each: 

“ Now I’m satisfied; I’ve watched and waited pa- 


tiently, and after many tribulations you have found 
WwW 


354 WORK. 


each other in good time;” then with a meaning look 
at Christie he added slyly: “ But David is ‘no hero’ 
you know.” 

She remembered the chat in the strawberry bed, 
laughed, and colored brightly, as she answered with her 
hand trustfully in David’s, her eyes full of loving pride 
and reverence lifted to his face: 

“T’ve seen both sides of the medal now, and found it | 
‘sterling gold” Hero or not I’m content; for, though | 
he ‘loves his mother much,’ there is room in his heart — 
forme too; his ‘old books’ have given him something / 
better than learning, and he has convinced me that’ 
‘double flowers’ are loveliest and best.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 
MUSTERED IN. 


HRISTIE’S return was a very happy one, and 
could not well be otherwise with a mother, sister, 
and lover to welcome her back. Her meeting with 
Letty was indescribably tender, and the days that fol- 
lowed were pretty equally divided between her and her 
brother, in nursing the one and loving the other. 
There was no cloud now in Christie’s sky, and all the 
world seemed in bloom. But even while she enjoyed 
every hour of life, and begrudged the time given to 
sleep, she felt as if the dream was too beautiful to last, 
and often said : 

“Something will happen: such perfect happiness is 
not possible in this world.” 

“Then let us make the most of it,’ David would 
reply, wisely bent on getting his honey while he could, 
and not borrowing trouble for the morrow. 

So Christie turned a deaf ear to her “prophetic 
soul,” and gave herself up to the blissful holiday that 
had come at last. Even while March winds were howl- 
ing outside, she blissfully “poked in the dirt” with 
David in the green-house, put up the curly lock as 
often as she liked, and told him she loved him a dozen 


356 WORK. x 


times a day, not in words, but in silent ways, that_ 
touched him to the heart, and made his future look so 
bright he hardly dared believe in it. 

A happier man it would have been difficult to find 
just then; all his burdens seemed to have fallen off, 
and his spirits rose again with an elasticity which sur- 
prised even those who knew him best. Christie often 
stopped to watch and wonder if the blithe young man 
who went whistling and singing about the house, often 
stopping to kiss somebody, to joke, or to exclaim with 
a beaming face like a child at a party: “Isn’t every 
thing beautiful?” could be the sober, steady David, 
who used to plod to and fro with his shoulders a little 
bent, and the absent look in his eyes that told of 
thoughts above or beyond the daily task. 

It was good to see his mother rejoice over him with 
an exceeding great joy; it was better still to see Letty’s 
eyes follow him with unspeakable love and gratitude in 
their soft depths; but it was best of all to see Christie 
marvel and exult over the discoveries she made: for, 
though she had known David for a year, she had never 
seen the real man till now. 

“Davy, you are a humbug,” she said one day when 
they were making up a bridal order in the green- 
house. 4 

“TI told you so, but you wouldn’t believe it,” he an- 
swered, using long stemmed rose-buds with as prodigal 
a hand as if the wedding was to be his own. 

“I thought I was going to marry a quiet, studious, 
steady-going man; and here I find myself engaged to 
a romantic youth who flies about in the most undigni- 
fied manner, embraces people behind doors, sings opera 


MUSTERED IN. Sor 


airs, — very much out of tune by the way,— and con- 
ducts himself more like an infatuated Claude Melnotte, 
than a respectable gentleman on the awful verge of 
matrimony. Nothing can surprise me now: I’m pre- 
pared for any thing, even the sight of my Quakerish 
lover dancing a jig.” 

“Just what I’ve been longing to do! Come and 
take a turn: it will do you good;” and, to Christie’s 
utter amazement, David caught her round the waist 
and waltzed her down the boarded walk with a speed 
and skill that caused less havoc among the flower-pots 
than one would imagine, and seemed to delight the 
plants, who rustled and nodded as if applauding the 
dance of the finest double flower that had ever blos- 
somed in their midst. 

“T can’t help it, Christie,” he said, when he had 
landed her breathless and laughing at the other end. 
“T feel like a boy out of school, or rather a man out of 
prison, and mwst enjoy my liberty in some way. I’m 
not a talker, you know; and, as the laws of gravitation 
forbid my soaring aloft anywhere, I can only express 
my joyfully uplifted state of mind by ‘prancing,’ as 
you call it. Never mind dignity: let’s be happy, and 
by and by I’ll sober down.” 

“TI don’t want you to; I love to see you so young 
and happy, only you are not the old David, and I’ve 
got to get acquainted with the new one.” 

“T hope you’ll like him better than the frost-bitten 
‘old David’ you first knew and were kind enough to 
love. Mother says I’ve gone back to the time before 
we lost Letty, and I sometimes feel as if I had. In 
that case you will find me a proud, impetuous, am- 
bitious fellow, Christie, and how will that suit?” 


358 WORK. ~ 


“Excellently; I like pride of your sort ; impetuosity — 
becomes you, for you have learned to control it if need — 
be; and the ambition is best of all. I always won- 
dered at your want of it, and longed to stir you up; 
for you did not seem the sort of man to be contented 
with mere creature comforts when there are so many 
fine things men may do. What shall you choose, © 
Davy?” 

“T shall wait for time to show. The sap is all astir 
in me, and I’m ready for my chance. I don’t know 
what it is, but I feel very sure that some work will be 
given me into which I can put my whole heart and 
soul and strength. I spoilt my first chance; but I know 
I shall have another, and, whatever it is, lam ready to 
do my best, and live or die for it as God wills.” 

“So am I,” answered Christie, with a voice as earnest 
and a face as full of hopeful resolution as his own. 

Then they went back to their work, little dreaming 
as they tied roses and twined smilax wreaths, how near 
that other chance was; how soon they were to be called 
upon to keep their promise, and how well each was to 
perform the part given them in life and death. 

The gun fired one April morning at Fort Sumter 
told many men like David what their work was to be, 
and showed many women like Christie a new right to 
claim and bravely prove their fitness to possess. 

No need to repeat the story of the war begun that 
day; it has been so often told that it will only be 
touched upon here as one of the experiences of Chris- 
tie’s life, an experience which did for her what it did 
for all who took a share in it, and loyally acted their 
part. 


MUSTERED IN. 559 


The North woke up from its prosperous lethargy, and 
began to stir with the ominous hum of bees when rude 
hands shake the hive. Rich and poor were proud to 
prove that they loved their liberty better than their 
money or their lives, and the descendants of the brave 
old Puritans were worthy of their race. Many said: “ It 
will soon be over;” but the wise men, who had warned 
in vain, shook their heads, as that first disastrous sum- 
mer showed that the time for compromise was past, and 
the stern reckoning day of eternal justice was at 
hand, 

To no home in the land did the great trouble bring 
a more sudden change than the little cottage in the 
lane. All its happy peace was broken; excitement 
and anxiety, grief and indignation, banished the sweet 
home joys and darkened the future that had seemed so 
clear. David was sober enough now, and went about his 
work with a grim set to his lips, and a spark in his eyes 
that made the three women look at one another pale 
with unspoken apprehension. As they sat together, 
picking lint or rolling bandages while David read 
aloud some dismal tale of a lost battle that chilled 
their blood and made their hearts ache with pity, each 
woman, listening to the voice that stirred her like mar- 
tial music, said within herself: “Sooner or later he 
will go, and I have no right to keep him.” Each tried 
to be ready to make her sacrifice bravely when the 
time came, and each prayed that it might not be 
required of her. 

David said little, but they knew by the way he 
neglected his garden and worked for the soldiers, that 
his heart was in the war. Day after day he left Chris- 


360 WORK. 


tie and his sister to fill the orders that came so often 


now for flowers to lay on the grave of some dear, dead 
boy brought home to his mother ina shroud. Day after 
day he hurried away to help Mr. Power in the sani- 
tary work that soon claimed all hearts and hands; and, 
day after day, he came home with what Christie called 
the “heroic look” more plainly written on his face. 
All that first summer, so short and strange; all that 
first winter, so long and hard to those who went and 
those who stayed, David worked and waited, and the 


women waxed strong in the new atmosphere of self 
pm A Bild Solas aa) 


sacrifice which pervaded the air, bringing out the sturdy 
virtues of the North. 

“ How terrible! Oh, when will it be over!” sighed 
Letty one day, after hearing a long list of the dead 
and wounded in one of the great battles of that second 
summer. 

“ Never till we have beaten!” cried David, throwing 
down the paper and walking about the room with his 
head up like a war-horse who smells powder. “It is 
terrible and yet glorious. JI thank heaven I live to see 
this great wrong righted, and only wish I could do my 
share like a man.” 

“That is natural; but there are plenty of men who 
have fewer ties than you, who can fight better, and 
whose places are easier to fill than yours if they die,” 
said Christie, hastily. 

“ But the men who have most to lose fight best they 
say; and to my thinking a soldier needs a principle as 
well as a weapon, if he is to do real service.” 

“ As the only son of a widow, you can’t be drafted : 
that’s one comfort,” said Letty, who could not bear to 
give up the brother lost to her for so many years. 


MUSTERED IN. 361 


“JT should not wait for that, and I know mother 
would give her widow’s mite if she saw that it was 
needed.” 

“Yes, Davy.” The soft, old voice answered steadily ; 
but the feeble hand closed instinctively on the arm of 
this only son, who was so dear to her. David held it 
close in both of his, saying gratefully: “Thank you, 
mother;” then, fixing his eyes on the younger yet not 
dearer women, he added with a ring in his voice that 
made their hearts answer with a prompt “ Ay, ay!” 
in spite of love or fear: 

“ Now listen, you dear souls, and understand that, if 
Ido this thing, I shall not do it hastily, nor without 
counting well the cost. My first and most natural im- 
pulse was to go in the beginning; but I stayed for 
your sakes. I saw I was not really needed: I thought 
the war would soon be over, and those who went then 
could do the work. You see how mistaken we were, 
and God only knows when the end will come. The 
boys—bless their brave hearts! —have done nobly, 
but older men are needed now. We cannot sacrifice all 
the gallant lads; and we who have more to lose than 
they must take our turn and try to do as well. You 
own this; I see it in your faces: then don’t hold me 
back when the time comes for me to go. I must do 
my part, however small it is, or I shall never feel as if 
I deserved the love you give me. You will let me go, 
Iam sure, and not regret that I did what seemed to 
me a solemn duty, leaving the consequences to the 
Lord! ” 

“Yes, David,” sister and sweetheart answered, 

16 


862 WORK. 


bravely forgetting in the fervor of the moment what 
heavy consequences God might see fit to send. 

“Good! I knew my Spartans would be ready, and 
I won’t disgrace them. I’ve waited more than a year, 
and done what I could. But all the while I felt 
that I was going to get a chance at the hard work, and 
I’ve been preparing for it. Bennet will take the garden 
and green-house off my hands this autumn for a year 
or longer, if I like. He’s a kind, neighborly man, and 
his boy will take my place about the house and protect 
you faithfully. Mr. Power cannot be spared to go as — 
chaplain, though he longs to desperately ; so he is near 
in case of need, and with your two devoted daughters 
by you, mother, I surely can be spared for a little 
while.” 

“Only one daughter near her, David: I shall enlist 
when you do,” said Christie, resolutely. 

“You mean it ?” 

“T mean it as honestly as youdo. I knew you would 
go: I saw you getting ready, and I made up my mind 
to follow. I, too, have prepared for it, and even spoken 
to Mrs. Amory. She has gone as matron of a hospital, 
and promised to find a place for me when I was ready. 
The day you enlist I shall write and tell her I am 
ready.” 

There was fire in Christie’s eyes and a flush on her 
cheek now, as she stood up with the look of a woman 
bent on doing well her part. David caught her hands 
in his, regardless of the ominous bandages they held, 
and said, with tender admiration and reproach in his 
voice : 

“You wouldn’t marry me when I asked you this 


MUSTERED IN. 363 


summer, fearing you would be a burden to me; but 
now you want to share hardship and danger with me, 
and support me by the knowledge of your nearness. 
Dear, ought I to let you do it?” 

“ You will let me do it, and in return I will marry 
you whenever you ask me,” answered Christie, sealing 
the promise with a kiss that silenced him. 

He had been anxious to be married long ago, but 
when he asked Mr. Power to make him happy, a month 
after his engagement, that wise friend said to them: 

“JT don’t advise it yet. You have tried and proved 
one another as friends, now try and prove one another 
as lovers; then, if you feel that all is safe and happy, 
you will be ready for the greatest of the three experi- 
ments, and then in God’s name marry.” 

“We will,” they said, and for a year had been con- 
tent, studying one another, finding much to love, and 
something to learn in the art of bearing and forbearing. 

David had begun to think they had waited long 
enough, but Christie still delayed, fearing she was not 
worthy, and secretly afflicted by the thought of her 
poverty. She had so little to give in return for all she 
received that it troubled her, and she was sometimes 
tempted to ask Uncle Enos for a modest marriage por- 
tion. She never had yet, and now resolved to ask 
nothing, but to earn her blessing by doing her share in 
the great work. 

“ T shall remember that,” was all David answered to 
that last promise of hers, and three months later he 
took her at her word. 

For a week or two they went on in the old way; 
Christie did her housework with her head full of new 


364 WORK. 


plans, read books on nursing, made gruel, plasters, and 
poultices, till Mrs. Sterling pronounced her perfect; and 
dreamed dreams of a happy time to come when peace 
had returned, and David was safe at home with all the 
stars and bars a man could win without dying for them. 

David set things in order, conferred with Bennet, 
petted his womankind, and then hurried away to pack 
boxes of stores, visit camps, and watch departing regi- 
ments with a daily increasing certainty that his time 
had come. 

One September day he went slowly home, and, seeing 
Christie in the garden, joined her, helped her finish mat- 
ting up some delicate shrubs, put by the tools, and 
when all was done said with unusual gentleness : 

“ Come and walk a little in the lane.” 

She put her arm in his, and answered quickly : 

“ You’ve something to tell me: I see it in your face.” 

“ Dear, I must go.” | 

“ Yes, David.” 

“ And you?” 

“T go too.” 

“ Yes, Christie.” 

That was all: she did not offer to detain him now; 
he did not deny her right to follow. They looked each 
* other bravely in the face a moment, seeing, acknowledg- 
ing the duty and the danger, yet ready to do the one 
and dare the other, since they went together. Then 
shoulder to shoulder, as’ if already mustered in, these 
faithful comrades marched to and fro, planning their 
campaign. 

Next evening, as Mrs. Sterling sat alone in the twi- 
light, a tall man in army biue entered quietly, stood 


MUSTERED IN. 3865 


watching the tranquil figure for a moment, then went 
and knelt down beside it, saying, with a most unsol- 
dierly choke in the voice: 

“I’ve done it, mother: tell me you’re not sorry.” 

But the little Quaker cap went down on the broad 
shoulder, and the only answer he heard was a sob that 
stirred the soft folds over the tender old heart that 
clung so closely to the son who had lived for her so 
long. What happened in the twilight no one ever 
knew; but David received promotion for bravery in a 
harder battle than any he was going to, and from his 
mother’s breast a decoration more precious to him than 
the cross of the Legion of Honor from a royal hand. 

When Mr. Power presently came in, followed by the 
others, they found their soldier standing very erect in 
his old place on the rug, with the firelight gleaming on 
his bright buttons, and Bran staring at him with a 
perplexed aspect; for the uniform, shorn hair, trimmed 
beard, and a certain lofty carriage of the head so 
changed his master that the sagacious beast was dis- 
turbed. 

Letty smiled at him approvingly, then went to com- 
fort her mother who could not recover her tranquillity 
so soon. But Christie stood aloof, looking at her lover 
with something more than admiration in the face that 
kindled beautifully as she exclaimed : 

“O David, you are splendid! Once I was so blind 
I thought you plain; but now my ‘boy in blue’ is the 
noblest looking man I ever saw. Yes, Mr. Power, I’ve 
found my hero at-last! Here he is, my knight without 
reproach or fear, going out to take his part in the 
grandest battle ever fought. I wouldn’t keep him if I 


366 WORK. 


could; I’m glad and proud to have him go; and if he 
never should come back to me I can bear it better for 
knowing that he dutifully did his best, and left the 
consequences to the Lord.” 

Then, having poured out the love and pride and con- 
fidence that enriched her sacrifice, she broke down and 
clung to him, weeping as so many clung and wept in 
those hard days when men and women gave their dear- 
est, and those who prayed and waited suffered almost 
as much as those who fought and died. 

When the deed was once done, it was astonishing 
what satisfaction they all took in it, how soon they got 
accustomed to the change, and what pride they felt in 
“our soldier.” The loyal frenzy fell upon the three quiet 
women, and they could not do too much for their 
country. Mrs. Sterling cut up her treasured old linen 
without a murmur; Letty made “ comfort bags” by the 
dozen, put up jelly, and sewed on blue jackets with 
tireless industry ; while Christie proclaimed that if she 
had twenty lovers she would send them all; and then 
made preparations enough to nurse the entire party. 

David meantime was in camp, getting his first taste of 
martial life, and not liking it any better than he thought 
he should; but no one heard a complaint, and he never 
regretted his “love among the roses,” for he was one 
of the men who had a “ principle as well as a weapon,” 
and meant to do good service with both. 

It would have taken many knapsacks to hold all the 
gifts showered upon him by his friends and neighbors. 
He accepted all that came, and furnished forth those of 
his company who were less favored. Among these was 
Elisha Wilkins, and how he got there should be told. 


MUSTERED IN. 367 


Elisha had not the slightest intention of enlisting, \ 


but Mrs. Wilkins was a loyal soul, and could not rest 
till she had sent a substitute, since she could not go 
herself. Finding that Lisha showed little enthusiasm 
on the subject, she tried to rouse him by patriotic 
appeals of various sorts. She read stirring accounts of 
battles, carefully omitting the dead and wounded; she 
turned out, baby and all if possible, to cheer every 
regiment that left; and was never tired of telling Wash 
how she wished she could add ten years to his age and 
send him off to fight for his country like a man. 

But nothing seemed to rouse the supine Elisha, who 
chewed his quid like a placid beast of the field, and 
showed no sign of a proper spirit. 

“ Very well,” said Mrs. Wilkins resolutely to herself, 
“ ef I can’t make no impression on his soul I will on his 
stommick, and see how that ll work.” 

Which threat she carried out with such skill and 
force that Lisha was effectually waked up, for he was 
“partial to good vittles,” and Cynthy was a capital 
cook. Poor rations did not suit him, and he demanded 
why his favorite dishes were not forthcoming. 

“We can’t afford no nice vittles now when our men 
are sufferin’ so. I should be ashamed to cook ’em, and 
expect to choke tryin’ to eat ’em. Every one is sacri- 
ficin’ somethin’, and we mustn’t be slack in doin’ our 
part, — the Lord knows it’s precious little, — and there 
won’t be no stuftin’ in this house for a consid’able spell. 
Ef I could save up enough to send a man to do my 
share of the fightin’, I should be proud to do it. Any- 
way I shall stint the family and send them dear brave 
fellers every cent I can git without starvin’ the chil- 
dren.” 


368 WORK. 


“ Now, Cynthy, don’t -be ferce. Things will come 
out all right, and it ain’t no use upsettin’ every thing 
and bein’ so darned uncomfortable,” answered Mr. Wil- 
kins with unusual energy. 

“ Yes it is, Lisha. No one has a right to be comfort- 
able in such times as these, and this family ain’t goin’ 
to be ef I can help it,” and Mrs. Wilkins set down her 
flat-iron with a slam which plainly told her Lisha war 
was declared. 

He said no more but fell a thinking. He was not as 
unmoved as he seemed by the general excitement, and 
had felt sundry manly impulses to “up and at ’em,” 
when his comrades in the shop discussed the crisis with 
ireful brandishing of awls, and vengeful pounding of 
sole leather, as if the rebels were under the hammer. 
But the selfish, slothful little man could not make up 
his mind to brave hardship and danger, and fell back 
on his duty to his family as a reason for keeping safe at 
home. 

But now that home was no longer comfortable, now 
that Cynthy had sharpened her tongue, and turned 
“ferce,” and now — hardest blow of all—that he was 
kept on short commons, he began to think he might as 
well be on the tented field, and get a little glory along 
with the discomfort if that was inevitable. Nature 
abhors a vacuum, and when food fell short patriotism 
had a chance to fill the aching void. Lisha had about 
made up his mind, for he knew the value of peace and 
quietness ; and, though his wife was no scold, she was 
the ruling power, and in his secret soul he considered 
her a very remarkable woman. He knew what she 
wanted, but was not going to be hurried for anybody ; 


| 
) 


MUSTERED IN. 369 


so he still kept silent, and Mrs. Wilkins began to think 
she must give it up. An unexpected ally appeared 
however, and the good woman took advantage of it to 
strike one last blow. 

Lisha sat eating a late breakfast one morning, with a 
small son at either elbow, waiting for stray mouthfuls 
and committing petty larcenies right and left, for Pa 
was in a brown study. Mrs. Wilkins was frying flap- 
jacks, and though this is not considered an heroical em- 
ployment she made it so that day. This was a favorite 
dish of Lisha’s, and she had prepared it as a bait for 
this cautious fish. To say that the fish rose at once 
and swallowed the bait, hook and all, but feebly ex- 
presses the justice done to the cakes by that long-suffer- 
ing man. Waiting till he had a tempting pile of the 
lightest, brownest flapjacks ever seen upon his plate, 
and was watching an extra big bit of butter melt luxu- 
riously into the warm bosom of the upper one, with a 
face as benign as if some of the molasses he was trick- 
ling over them had been absorbed into his nature, 
Mrs. Wilkins seized the propitious inoment to say in- 
pressively : 

“David Sterlin’ has enlisted!” 

“Sho! has he, though ?” 

“Of course he has! any man with the spirit of a 
muskeeter would.” 

“ Well, he ain’t got a family, you see.” 

“He’s got his old mother, that sister home from 
furrin’ parts somewheres, and Christie just going to be 
married. I should like to know who’s got a harder 
family to leave than that?” 

“ Six young children is harder: ef I went fifin’ and 

16* x 


370 WORK. 


drummin’ off, who’d take care of them I’d like to 
know?” 

/ “T guess J could support the family ef I give my ~ 
/ mind toit;” and Mrs. Wilkins turned a flapjack with an 
' emphasis that caused her lord to bolt a hot triangle 
with dangerous rapidity; for well he knew very little 
of his money went into the common purse. She never 
reproached him, but the fact nettled him now; and 
something in the tone of her voice made that sweet 
morsel hard to swallow. 

“*Pears to me you’re in ruther a hurry to be a 
widder, Cynthy, shovin’ me off to git shot in this kind | 
of a way,” growled Lisha, ill at ease. 

“Jd ruther be a brave man’s widder than a coward’s 
wife, any day!” cried the rebellious Cynthy: then she 
relented, and softly slid two hot cakes into his plate; 
adding, with her hand upon his shoulder, “ Lisha, dear, 
I want to be proud of my husband as other women be 
of theirs. Every one gives somethin’, I’ve only got 
you, and [ want to do my share, and do it hearty.” 

She went back to her work, and Mr. Wilkins sat 
thoughtfully stroking the curly heads beside him, while 
the boys ravaged his plate, with no reproof, but a half 
audible, “ My little chaps, my little chaps!” 

She thought she had got him, and smiled to herself, 
even while a great tear sputtered on the griddle at 
those last words of his. 

Imagine her dismay, when, having consumed the 
bait, her fish gave signs of breaking the line, and 
escaping after all; for Mr. Wilkins pushed back his 
chair, and said slowly, as he filled his pipe: 

“I’m blest ef I can see the sense of a lot of decent 


MUSTERED IN. STL 


men going off to be froze, and Hee and blowed up 
jest for them confounded niggers.’ 

He got no further, for fis ites patience gave out; 
and, leaving her cakes to burn black, she turned to him 
with a face glowing like her stove, and cried out: 

“Lisha, ain’t you got no heart? can you remember, 
what Hepsey told us, and call them poor, long-sufferin’ | 
creeters names? Can you think of them wretched 
wives sold from their husbands; them children as dear 
as ourn tore from their mothers; and old folks kep 
slavin eighty long, hard years with no pay, no help, no 
pity, when they et past work? Lisha Wilkins, look at 
that, and say no ef you darst!” 

Mrs. Wilkins was a homely woman in an old calico 
gown, but her face, her voice, her attitude were grand, 
as she flung wide the door of the little back bedroom, 
and pointed with her tin spatula to the sight beyond. 

Only Hepsey sitting by a bed where lay what looked 
more like a shrivelled mummy than a woman. Ah! 
but it was that old mother worked and waited for so 
long: blind now, and deaf; childish, and half dead with 
many hardships, but safe and free at last; and Hepsey’s 
black face was full of a pride, a peace, and happiness 
more eloquent and touching than any speech or sermon 
ever uttered. 

Mr. Wilkins had heard her story, and been more 
affected by it than he would confess: now it came 
home to him with sudden force; the thought of his 
own mother, wife, or babies torn from him stirred him 
to the heart, and the manliest emotion he had ever 
known caused him to cast his pipe at his feet, put on 
his hat with an energetic slap, and walk out of the 


372 WORK. 


house, wearing an expression on his usually wooden face 
that caused his wife to clap her hands and cry exult- 
ingly: 

“T thought that would fetch him!” 

Then she fell to work like an inspired woman; and 
at noon a sumptuous dinner “ smoked upon the board ;” 
the children were scrubbed till their faces shone; and . 
the room was as fresh and neat as any apartment could 
be with the penetrating perfume of burnt flapjacks still 
pervading the air, and three dozen ruffled nightcaps 
decorating the clothes-lines overhead. 

“Tell me the instant minute you see Pa a comin’, and 
Ill dish up the gravy,” was Mrs. Wilkins’s command, as 
she stepped in with a cup of tea for old “ Marm,” as 
she called Hepsey’s mother. 

“ He’s a comin’, Ma!” called Gusty, presently. 

“ No, he ain’t: it’s a trainer,” added Ann Lizy. 

“Yes, tis Pa! oh, my eye! ain’t he stunnin’!” cried 
Wash, stricken for the first time with admiration of his 
sire. 

Before Mrs. Wilkins could reply to these conflicting 
rumors her husband walked in, looking as martial as his 
hollow chest and thin legs permitted, and, turning his 
cap nervously in his hands, said half-proudly, half- 
reproachfully : 

“ Now, Cynthy, be you satisfied ?” 

“Oh, my Lisha! I be, I be!” and the inconsistent 
woman fell upon his buttony breast weeping copi- 
ously. 

If ever a man was praised and petted, admired and 
caressed, it was Elisha Wilkins that day. His wife 
fed him with the fat of the land, regardless of conse- 


MUSTERED IN. Rat Gs 


quences; his children revolved about him with tireless 
curiosity and wonder; his neighbors flocked in to ap- 
plaud, advise, and admire; every one treated him with 
a respect most grateful to his feelings; he was an object 
of interest, and with every hour his importance in- 
creased, so that by night he felt like a Commander-in- 
Chief, and bore himself accordingly. He had enlisted 
in David’s regiment, which was a great comfort to his 
wife ; for though her stout heart never failed her, it grew 
very heavy at times; and when Lisha was gone, she 
often dropped a private tear over the broken pipe that 


_ always lay in its old place, and vented her emotions by 
sending baskets of nourishment to Private Wilkins, 
which caused that bandy-legged warrior to be much 
envied and cherished by his mates. 


“I’m glad I done it; for it will make a man of 
Lisha; and, if I’ve sent him to his death, God knows 
he ‘Il be fitter to die than if he stayed here idlin’ his life 
away.” 

Then the good soul openly shouldered the burden 
she had borne so long in secret, and bravely trudged 
on alone. 

“ Another great battle!” screamed the excited news- 
boys in the streets. “Another great battle!” read 
Letty in the cottage parlor. “ Another great battle!” 
cried David, coming in with the war-horse expression 
on his face a month or two after he enlisted. 

The women dropped their work to look and listen ; 
for his visits were few and short, and every instant was 
precious. When the first greetings were over, David 
stood silent an instant, and a sudden mist came over his 
eyes as he glanced from one beloved face to another; 


374 WORK. 


then he threw back his head with the old impatient 
gesture, squared his shoulders, and said in a loud, cheer- 
ful voice, with a suspicious undertone of emotion in it, 
however : 

“ My precious people, I’ve got something to tell you: 
are you ready ?” 

They knew what it was without a word. Mrs. Ster- 
ling clasped her hands and bowed her head. Letty 
turned pale and dropped her work; but Christie’s eyes 
kindled, as she answered with a salute: 

“ Ready, my General.” 

“ We are ordered off at once, and go at four this 
afternoon. I’ve got a three hours’ leave to say good- 
by in. Now, let’s be brave and enjoy every minute 
of it.” 

“We will: what can I do for you, Davy?” asked 
Christie, wonderfully supported by the thought that 
she was going too. 

“Keep your promise, dear,” he answered, while the 
warlike expression changed to one of infinite tender- 
ness. 

“ What promise ? ” 

“'This;” and he held out his hand with a little 
paper in it. She saw it was a marriage license, and on 
it lay a wedding-ring. She did not hesitate an instant, 
but laid her own hand in his, and answered with her 
heart in her face: 

“ T’ll keep it, David.” 

“T knew you would!” then holding her close he said 
in a tone that made it very hard for her to keep steady, 
as she had vowed she would do to the last: “I know 
it is much to ask, but I want to feel that you are mine 


MUSTERED IN. 375 


before I go. Not only that, but it will be a help and 
_ protection to you, dear, when you follow. As a married 
woman you will get on better, as my wife you will be 
allowed to come to me if I need you, and as my” — 
he stopped there, for he could not add — “ as my widow 
you will have my pension to support you.” 
She understood, put both arms about his neck as if 
to keep him safe, and whispered fervently : 
“ Nothing can part us any more, not even death; for 
love like ours will last for ever.” 
“Then you are quite willing to try the third great 


experiment?” 
Oe Girend proud to do it.” 
“ With no doubt, no fear, to mar your consent.” 


“ Not one, David.” 

“That’s true love, Christie! ” 

Then they stood quite still for a time, and in the 
silence the two hearts talked together in the sweet 
language no tongue can utter. Presently David said 
regretfully : 

“T meant it should be so different. I always planned 
that we’d be married some bright summer day, with 
many friends about us; then take a happy little journey 
somewhere together, and come back to settle down at 
home in the dear old way. Now it’s all so hurried, 
sorrowful, and strange. A dull November day; no 
friends but Mr. Power, who will be here soon; no jour- 
ney but my march to Washington alone; and no happy 
coming home together in this world perhaps. Can you 
bear it, love?” 

“Have no fear for me: I feel as if I could bear any 
thing just now; for I’ve got into a heroic mood and I 


376 WORK. 


mean to keep so as long as I can. I’ve always wanted 
to live in stirring times, to have a part in great deeds, 
to sacrifice and suffer something for a principle or a 
person; and now I have my wish. I like it, David: 
it’s a grand time to live, a splendid chance to do and 
suffer; and I want to be in it heart and soul, and earn a 
/ little of the glory or the martyrdom that will come in 
the end. Surely I shall if I give you and myself to 
the cause; and I do it gladly, though I know that my 
heart has got to ache as it never has ached yet, when 
my courage fails, as it will by and by, and my selfish 
soul counts the cost of my offering after the excitement 
is over. Help me to be brave and strong, David: don’t 
let me complain or regret, but show me what lies be- 
yond, and teach me to believe that simply doing the 
right is reward and happiness enough.” 

iristie was lifted out of herself for the moment, 
and looked Inspired by the high mood which was but 
the beginning of a nobler life for her. David caught 
the exaltation, and gave no further thought to any thing 
but the duty of the hour, finding himself stronger and 
braver for that long look into the illuminated face of 
the woman he loved. 

“Tll try,” was all his answer to her appeal; then 
proved that he meant it by adding, with his lips against 
her cheek: “I must go to mother and Letty. We 
leave them behind, and they must be comforted.” 

He went, and Christie vanished to make ready for 
her wedding, conscious, in spite of her exalted state of 
mind, that every thing was very hurried, sad, and 
strange, and very different from.the happy day she had 
so often planned. ; 


MUSTERED IN. BTT 


“ No matter, we are ‘well on’t for love, and that is 
all we really need,” she thought, recalling with a smile 
Mrs. Wilkins’s advice. 

“David sends you these, dear. Can I help in any 
way?” asked Letty, coming with a cluster of lovely 
white roses in her hand, and a world of affection in her 
eyes. 

“T thought he’d give me violets,” and a shadow 
came over Christie’s face. 

“ But they are mourning flowers, you know.” 

“Not tome. The roses are, for they remind me of 
poor Helen, and the first work I did with David was 
arranging flowers like these for a dead baby’s little 
coffin.” 

“My dearest Christie, don’t be superstitious: all 
brides wear roses, and Davy thought you’d like them,” 
said Letty, troubled at her words. 

“ Then Ill wear them, and I won’t have fancies if I 
ean help it. But I think few brides dress with a braver, 
happier heart than mine, though I do choose a sober 
wedding-gown,” answered Christie, smiling again, as 
she took from a half-packed trunk her new hospital suit 
of soft, gray, woollen stuff. 

“ Won’t you wear the pretty silvery silk we like so 
well?” asked Letty timidly, for something in Christie’s 
face and manner impressed her very much. 

“ No, I will be married in my uniform as David is,” 
she answered with a look Letty long remembered. 

“ Mr. Power has come,” she said softly a few minutes 
later, with an anxious glance at the clock. 

“Go dear, I’ll come directly. But first”— and 
Christie held her friend close a moment, kissed her ten- 


378 WORK. 


derly, and whispered in a broken voice: “ Remember, I 
don’t take his heart from you, I only share it with my 
sister and my mother.” 

“I’m glad to give him to you, Christie; for now I 
feel as if I had partly paid the great debt 1’ve owed so 
long,” answered Letty through her tears. 

Then she went away, and Christie soon followed, 
looking very like a Quaker bride in her gray gown with 
no ornament but delicate frills at neck and wrist, and. 
the roses in her bosom. 

“No bridal white, dear?” said David, going to her. 

“Only this,’ and she touched the flowers, adding 
with her hand on the blue coat sleeve that embraced 
her: “I want to consecrate my uniform as you do 
yours by being married in it. Isn’t it fitter for a sole 
dier’s wife than lace and silk at such a time as this ?” 

“ Much fitter: I like it; and I find you beautiful, my 
Christie,” whispered David, as she put one of her roses 
in his button-hole. 

“ Then I’m satisfied.” 

“ Mr. Power is waiting: are you ready, love?” 

“ Quite ready.” 

Then they were married, with Letty and her mother 
standing beside them, Bennet and his wife dimly 
visible in the door-way, and poor Bran at his master’s 
feet, looking up with wistful eyes, half human in the 
anxious affection they expressed. 

Christie never forgot that service, so simple, sweet, 
and solemn; nor the look her husband gave her at the 
end, when he kissed her on lips and forehead, saying 
fervently, “God bless my wife!” 

A tender little scene followed that can better be 


MUSTERED IN. 379 


imagined than described; then Mr. Power said cheer- 
ily: 

“One hour more is all you have, so make the most 
of it, dearly beloved. You young folks take a wedding- 
trip to the green-house, while we see how well we can 
get on without you.” 

David and Christie went smiling away together, and 


———_ 


i 


rem 
ee 
ZZ 
E 


if 
ih 
rah 
tN t \ 
mite NAN 
‘ hy it 


— TELL 
—== = ign ie 
—— 


“THEN THEY WERE MARRIED.” 


380 WORK. 


if they shed any tears over the brief happiness no one 
saw them but the flowers, and they loyally kept the 
secret folded up in their tender hearts. 

Mr. Power cheered the old lady, while Letty, always 
glad to serve, made ready the last meal David might 
ever take at home. 

A very simple little marriage feast, but more love, 
good-will, and tender wishes adorned the plain table 
than is often found at wedding breakfasts; and better 
than any speech or song was Letty’s broken whisper, 
as she folded her arms round David’s empty chair when 
no one saw her, “Heaven bless and keep and bring 
him back to us.” : 

How time went that day! The inexorable clock 
would strike twelve so soon, and then the minutes flew 
till one was at hand, and the last words were still half 
said, the last good-byes still unuttered. 

“T must go!” cried David with a sort of desperation, 
as Letty clung to one arm, Christie to the other. 

“J shall see you soon: good-by, my husband,” whis- 
pered Christie, setting him free. 

“Give the last kiss to mother,” added Letty, follow- 
ing her example, and in another minute David was 
gone. 

At the turn of the lane, he looked back and swung 
his cap; all waved their hands to him; and then he 
marched away to the great work before him, leaving 
those loving hearts to ask the unanswerable question : 
“ How will he come home?” 

Christie was going to town to see the regiment off, 
and soon followed with Mr. Power. They went early 
to a certain favorable spot, and there found Mrs. Wil- 


C 


MUSTERED IN. 381 


kins, with her entire family perched upon a fence, on 
the spikes of which they impaled themselves at inter- 
vals, and had to be plucked off by the stout girl en- 
gaged to assist in this memorable expedition. 

“ Yes, Lisha’s goin’, and I was bound he should see 
every one of his blessed children the last thing, ef I 
took ’em all on my back. He knows where to look, 
and he’s a goin’ to see seven cheerful faces as he goes 
by. Time enough to cry byme by; so set stiddy, 
boys, and cheer loud when you see Pa,” said Mrs. 
Wilkins, fanning her hot face, and utterly forgetting 
her cherished bonnet in the excitement of the moment. 

“JT hear drums! They ’re comin’!” cried Wash, after 
a long half hour’s waiting had nearly driven him frantic. 

The two younger boys immediately tumbled off the 
fence, and were with difficulty restored to their perches. 
Gusty began to cry, Ann Elizy to wave a minute red 
cotton handkerchief, and Adelaide to kick delightedly 
in her mother’s arms. 

“Jane Carter, take this child for massy sake: my 
legs do tremble so I can’t h’ist her another minute. 
Hold on to me behind, somebody, for I must see ef 
I do pitch into the gutter,” cried Mrs. Wilkins, with 
a gasp, as she wiped her eyes on her shawl, clutched 
the railing, and stood ready to cheer bravely when 
her conquering hero came. 

Wash had heard drums every five minutes since he 
arrived, but this time he was right, and began to 
. cheer the instant a red cockade appeared at the other 
end of the long street. : 

It was a different scene now than in the first en- 
thusiastic, hopeful days. Young men and ardent boys 


382 WORK. 


filled the ranks then, brave by instinct, burning with 
loyal zeal, and blissfully ignorant of all that lay before 
them. 

Now the blue coats were worn by mature men, 
some gray, all grave and resolute ; husbands and fathers 
with the memory of wives and children tugging at 
their heart-strings; homes left desolate behind them, 
and before them the grim certainty of danger, hard- 
ship, and perhaps a captivity worse than death. Little 
of the glamour of romance about the war now: they 
saw what it was, a long, hard task; and here were 
the men to do it well. 

Even the lookers-on were different. Once all was 
wild enthusiasm and glad uproar; now men’s lips were 
set, and women’s smileless. even as they cheered; 
fewer handkerchiefs whitened the air, for wet eyes 
needed them ; and sudden lulls, almost solemn in their 
stillness, followed the acclamations of the crowd. All 
watched with quickened breath and proud souls that 
living wave, blue below, and bright with a steely 
glitter above, as it flowed down the street and away 
to join the sea of dauntless hearts that for months 
had rolled up against the South, and ebbed back red- 
dened with the blood of men like these. 

As the inspiring music, the grand tramp drew near, 
Christie felt the old thrill and longed to fall in and 
follow the flag anywhere. Then she saw David, and 
the regiment became one man to her. He was pale, 
but his eyes shone, and his whole face expressed that 
two of the best and bravest emotions of a man, love 
and loyalty, were at their height as he gave his new- 
made wife a long, lingering look that seemed to say: 


MUSTERED IN. 383 


“T could not love thee, dear, so much, 
Loved I not honor more.” 


Christie smiled and waved her hand to him, showed 
him his wedding roses still on her breast, and bore 
up as gallantly as he, resolved that his last impression 
of her should be a cheerful one. But when it was 
all over, and nothing remained but the trampled street, 
the hurrying crowd, the bleak November sky, when 
Mrs. Wilkins sat sobbing on the steps like Niobe with 
her children scattered about her, then Christie’s heart 
gave way, and she hid her face on Mr. Power’s shoulder 
for a moment, all her ardor quenched in tears as she 
cried within herself: 

“No, I could not bear it if I was not going too!” 


CHAPTER XVII. 
THE COLONEL. 


EN years earlier Christie made her début as an 
Amazon, now she had a braver part to play on a 
larger stage, with a nation for audience, martial music 
and the boom of cannon for orchestra; the glare of 
battle-fields was the “red light;” danger, disease, and 
death, the foes she was to contend against; and the 
troupe she joined, not timid girls, but high-hearted 
women, who fought gallantly till the “demon” lay 
dead, and sang their song of exultation with bleeding 
hearts, for this great spectacle was a dire tragedy to 
them. 

Christie followed David in a week, and soon proved 
herself so capable that Mrs. Amory rapidly promoted 
her from one important post to another, and bestowed 
upon her the only honors left the women, hard work, 
responsibility, and the gratitude of many men. 

“ You are a treasure, my dear, for you can turn your 
hand to any thing and do well whatever you under- 
take. So many come with plenty of good-will, but not 
a particle of practical ability, and are offended because 
I decline their help. The boys don’t want to be cried 
over, or have their brows ‘everlastingly swabbed, as 
old Watkins calls it: they want to be well fed and 


THE COLONEL. 385 


nursed, and cheered up with creature comforts. Your 
nice beef-tea and cheery ways are worth oceans of 
tears and cart-loads of tracts.” 

Mrs. Amory said this, as Christie stood waiting while 
she wrote an order for some extra delicacy for a very 
sick patient. Mrs. Sterling, Jr., certainly did look like 
an efficient nurse, who thought more of “the boys” 
than of herself; for one hand bore a pitcher of gruel, 
the other a bag of oranges, clean shirts hung over the 
right arm, a rubber cushion under the left, and every 
pocket in the big apron was full of bottles and band- 
ages, papers and letters. 

“J never discovered what an accomplished woman I 
was till I came here,” answered Christie, laughing. 
“T’m getting vain with so much praise, but I like it 
immensely, and never was so pleased in my life as I 
was yesterday when Dr. Harvey came for me to take 
care of poor Dunbar, because no one else could manage 
him.” 

“Tt’s your firm yet pitiful way the men like so well. 
I can’t describe it better than in big Ben’s words: ‘ Mis 
Sterlin’ is the nuss for me, marm. She takes care of 
me as ef she was my own mother, and it’s a comfort 
jest to see her round’ It’s a gift, my dear, and you 
may thank heaven you have got it, for it works wonders 
in a place like this.” 

“T only treat the poor fellows as J would have other 
women treat my David if he should be in their care. 
He may be any hour, you know.” 

“And my boys, God keep them! 

The pen lay idle, and the gruel cooled, as young wife 
and gray-haired mother forgot their duty for a moment 

17 Y 


19 


386 WORK. 


in tender thoughts of the absent. Only a moment, for 
in came an attendant with a troubled face, and an im- 
portant young surgeon with the well-worn little case 
under his arm. 

“ Bartlett ’s dying, marm: could you come and see to 
him ?” says the man to Mrs. Amory. 

“ We have got to amputate Porter’s arm this morn- 
ing, and he won’t consent unless you are with him. You 
will come, of course?” added the surgeon to Christie, 
having tried and found her a woman with no “con-) 
founded nerves ” to impair her usefulness. 

So matron and nurse go back to their duty, and 
dying Bartlett and suffering Porter are all the more 
tenderly served for that wasted minute. 

Like David, Christie had enlisted for the war, and 
in the two years that followed, she saw all sorts of 
service ; for Mrs. Amory had influence, and her right- 
hand woman, after a few months’ apprenticeship, was 
ready for any post. The gray gown and comforting 
face were known in many hospitals, seen on crowded 
transports, among the ambulances at the front, invalid 
cars, relief tents, and food depots up and down the 
land, and many men went out of life like tired children 
holding the hand that did its work so well. 

David meanwhile was doing his part manfully, not 
only in some of the great battles of those years, but 
among the hardships, temptations, and sacrifices of a 
soldiers’ life. Spite of his Quaker ancestors, he was a 
good fighter, and, better still, a magnanimous enemy, 
hating slavery, but not the slave-holder, and often 
spared the master while he saved the chattel. He was 
soon promoted, and might have risen rapidly, but was 


THE COLONEL. 38T 


content to remain as captain of his company; for his 
men loved him, and he was prouder of his influence 
over them than of any decoration he could win, 

His was the sort of courage that keeps a man faithful 
to death, and though he made no brilliant charge, 
uttered few protestations of loyalty, and was never 
heard to “damn the rebs,” his comrades felt that his 
brave example had often kept them steady till a forlorn 
hope turned into a victory, knew that all the wealth 
of the world could not bribe him from his duty, and 
learned of him to treat with respect an enemy as brave 
and less fortunate than themselves. A noble nature 
soon takes its proper rank and exerts its purifying influ- 
ence, and Private Sterling won confidence, affection, and 
respect, long before promotion came; for, though he 
had tended his flowers like a woman and loved his 
books like a student, he now proved that he could also 
do his duty and keep his honor stainless as a soldier 
and a gentleman. 

He and Christie met as often as the one could get a 
brief furlough, or the other be spared from hospital 
duty ; but when these meetings did come, they were 
wonderfully beautiful and rich, for into them was dis- 
tilled a concentration of the love, happiness, and com- 
munion which many men and women only know 
through years of wedded life. 

Christie liked romance, and now she had it, with a 
very sombre’ reality to~give it-an_ added charm. No 
Juliet ever welcomed her Romeo more joyfully than 
she welcomed David when he paid her a flying visit 
unexpectedly; no Bayard ever had a more devoted 
iady in his tent than David, when his wife came through 


388 WORK. 


every obstacle to bring him comforts or to nurse the 
few wounds he received. Love-letters, written beside 
watch-fires and sick-beds, flew to and fro like carrier- 
doves with wondrous speed; and nowhere in all the 
brave and busy land was there a fonder pair than this, 
although their honeymoon was spent apart in camp and 
hospital, and well they knew that there might never 
be for them a happy going home together. 

In her wanderings to and fro, Christie not only made 
many new friends, but met some old ones; and among 
these one whose unexpected appearance much surprised 
and touched her. 

She was “ scrabbling” eggs in a tin basin on board a 
crowded transport, going up the river with the echoes 
of a battle dying away behind her, and before her the 
prospect of passing the next day on a wharf serving 
out food to the wounded in an easterly storm. 

“Q Mrs. Sterling, do go up and see what’s to be 
done! We are all full below, and more poor fellows 
are lying about on deck in a dreadful state. Ill take 
your place here, but I can’t stand that any longer,” said 
one of her aids, coming in heart-sick and exhausted by 
the ghastly sights and terrible confusion of the day. 

“T’ll go: keep scrabbling while the eggs last, then 
knock out the head of that barrel and make gruel till I 
pass the word to stop.” 

Forgetting her bonnet, and tying the ends of her 
shawl behind her, Christie caught up a bottle of brandy 
and a canteen of water, and ran on deck. There a sight 
to daunt most any woman, met her eyes; for all about 
her, so thick that she could hardly step without tread- 
ing on them, lay the sad wrecks of men: some moan- 


THE COLONEL. 389 


ing for help; some silent, with set, white faces turned up | 
to the gray sky; all shelterless from the cold wind that 
blew, and the fog rising from the river. Surgeons and 
nurses were doing their best; but the boat was loaded, 
and greater suffering reigned below. 

“ Heaven help us all!” sighed Christie, and then she 
fell to work. 

Bottle and canteen were both nearly empty by the 
time she came to the end of the long line, where lay 
a silent figure with a hidden face. “ Poor fellow, is he 
dead?” she said, kneeling down to lift a corner of the 
blanket lent by a neighbor. 

A familiar face looked up at her, and a well remem- 
bered voice said courteously, but feebly : 

“ Thanks, not yet. Excuse my left hand. I’m very 
glad to see you.” 

“ Mr. Fletcher, can it be you!” she cried, looking at 
him with pitiful amazement. Well she might ask, for 
any thing more unlike his former self can hardly be 
imagined. Unshaven, haggard, and begrimed with 
powder, mud to the knees, coat half on, and, worst of 
all, the right arm gone, there lay the “piece of ele- 
“gance ” she had known, and answered with a smile she 
never saw before : 

“ All that’s left of me, and very much at your ser- 
vice. I must apologize for the dirt, but I’ve laid ina 
mud-puddle for two days; and, though it was much 
easier than a board, it doesn’t improve one’s appear- 
ance.” 

“What can I do for you? Where canI put you? 
I can’t bear to see you here!” said Christie, much 
afflicted by the spectacle before her. 


390 WORK. 


“ Why not? we are all alike when it comes to this 
pass. I shall do very well if I might trouble you for a 
draught of water.” 

She poured her last drop into his parched mouth and ¢ 
hurried off for more. She was detained by the way, 
and, when she returned, fancied he was asleep, but soon 
discovered that he had fainted quietly away, utterly 
spent with two days of hunger, suffering, and exposure. 
He was himself again directly, and lay contentedly 
looking up at her as she fed him with hot soup, longing 
to talk, but refusing to listen to a word till he was 
refreshed. 

“ That’s very nice,” he said gratefully, as he finished, 
adding with a pathetic sort of gayety, as he groped 
about with his one hand: “I don’t expect napkins, but 
I should like a handkerchief. They took my coat off 
when they did my arm, and the gentleman who kindly 
lent me this doesn’t seem to have possessed such an 
article.” 

Christie wiped his lips with the clean towel at her 
side, and smiled as she did it, at the idea of Mr. Fletch- 
er’s praising burnt soup, and her feeding him like a 
baby out of a tin cup. 

“J think it would comfort you if I washed your face: - 
can you bear to have it done?” she asked. 

“If you can bear to do it,” he answered, with an 
apologetic look, evidently troubled at receiving such 
services from her. 

Yet as her hands moved gently about his face, he 
shut his eyes, and there was a little quiver of the lips 
now and then, as if he was remembering a time when 
he had hoped to have her near him in a tenderer capacity 


THE COLONEL. 391 


than that of nurse. She guessed the thought, and tried 
to banish it by saying cheerfully as she finished : 

“There, you look more like yourself after that. Now 
the hands.” 

“Fortunately for you, there is but one,’ and he 
rather reluctantly surrendered a very dirty member. 

“Forgive me, I forgot. It isa brave hand, and | 
am proud to wash it!” 

“How do you know that?” he asked, surprised at 
her little burst of enthusiasm, for as she spoke she 
pressed the grimy hand in both her own. 

“ While I was recovering you from your faint, that 
man over there informed me that you were his Colonel; 
that you ‘fit like a tiger,” and when your right arm was 
disabled, you took your sword in the left and cheered 
them on as if you ‘were bound to beat the whole rebel 
army.” 

“That’s Drake’s story,’ and Mr. Fletcher tried to 
give the old shrug, but gave an irrepressible groan 
instead, then endeavored to cover it, by saying in a 
careless tone, “I thought I might get a little excite- 
ment out of it, so I went soldiering like all the rest of 
you. I’m not good for much, but I can lead the way 
for the brave fellows who do the work. Officers make 
good targets, and a rebel bullet would cause no sorrow 
in taking me out of the world.” 

“Don’t say that! JZ should grieve sincerely; and 
yet I’m very glad you came, for it will always be a 
satisfaction to you in spite of your great loss.” 

“There are greater losses than right arms,” muttered 
Mr. Fletcher gloomily, then checked himself, and added 
with a pleasant change in voice and face, as he glanced 
at, the wedding-ring she wore: 


392 | WORK. 


“This is not exactly the place for congratulations, 
but I can’t help offering mine; for if I’m not mistaken 
your left hand also has grown doubly precious since we 
met?” | 

Christie had been wondering if he knew, and was 
much relieved to find he took it so well. Her face said 
more than her words, as she answered briefly : 

“Thank you. Yes, we were married the day David 
left, and have both been in the ranks ever since.” 

“ Not wounded yet? your husband, I mean,” he said, 
getting over the hard words bravely. 

“Three times, but not badly. I think a special angel 
stands before him with a shield;” and Christie smiled 
as she spoke. 

“JT think a special angel stands behind him with 
prayers that avail much,” added Mr. Fletcher, looking 
up at her with an expression of reverence that touched 
her heart. 

“Now I must go to my work, and you to sleep: 
you need all the rest you can get before you have 
to knock about in the ambulances again,” she said, 
marking the feverish color in his face, and knowing 
well that excitement was his only strength. 

“TTow can I sleep in such an Jnferno as this?” 

«Try, you are so weak, you’ll soon drop off;” and, 
laying the cool tips of her fingers on his eyelids, she 
kept them shut till he yielded with a long sigh of 
mingled weariness and pleasure, and was asleep before 
he knew it. 

When he woke it was late at night; but little of 
night’s blessed rest was known on board that boat laden 
with a freight of suffering. Cries still came up from 


THE COLONEL. 393 


below, and moans of pain still sounded from the 
deck, where shadowy figures with lanterns went to 
and fro among the beds that in the darkness looked 
like graves. 

Weak with pain and fever, the poor man gazed 
about him half bewildered, and, conscious only of one 
desire, feebly called “ Christie!” 

“Were lam;” and the dull light of a lantern showed 
him her face very worn and tired, but full of friend- 
liest compassion. 

“ What can I do for yout? she asked, as he clutched 
her gown, and peered up at her with mingled doubt and 
satisfaction in his haggard eyes. 

“Just speak to me; let me touch you: I thought it 
was a dream; thank God it isn’t. How much longer 
will this last?” he added, falling back on the softest 
pillows she could find for him. 

“We shall soon land now; I believe there is an 
officers’ hospital in the town, and you will be quite 
comfortable there.” 

“JT want to go to your hospital: where is it?” 

“T have none; and, unless the old hotel is ready, I 
shall stay on the wharf with the boys until it is.” 

“Then I shall stay also. Don’t send me away, 
Christie: I shall not be a trouble long; surely David 
will let you help me die?” and poor Fletcher stretched 
his one hand imploringly to her in the first terror of the 
delirium that was coming on. 

“T will not leave you: I’Il take care of you, and no 
one can forbid it. Drink this, Philip, and trust to 
Christie.” 

He obeyed like a child, and soon fell again into a 

17* 


394 WORK. 


troubled sleep while she sat by him thinking about 
David. 

The old hotel was ready; but by the time he got 
there Mr. Fletcher was past caring where he went, and 
for a week was too ill to know any thing, except that 
Christie nursed him. Then he turned the corner and 
began to recover. She wanted him to go into more 
comfortable quarters; but he would not stir as long as 
she remained ; so she put him in a little room by himself, 
got a man to wait on him, and gave him.as much of her 
care and time as she could spare from her many duties. 
He was not an agreeable patient, I regret to say; 
he tried to bear his woes heroically, but did not succeed 
very well, not being used to any exertion of that sort; 
and, though in Christie’s presence he did his best, his 
man confided to her that the Colonel was “as fractious 
as a teething baby, and the domineeringest party he 
ever nussed.” 

Some of Mr. Fletcher’s attempts were comical, and 
some pathetic, for though the sacred circle of her wed- 
ding-ring was an effectual barrier against a look or 
word of love, Christie knew that the old affection was 
not dead, and it showed itself'in his desire to win her 
respect by all sorts of small sacrifices and efforts at self- 
control. He would not use many of the comforts sent 
him, but insisted on wearing an army dressing-gown, 
and slippers that cost him a secret pang every time his 
eye was affronted by their ugliness, Always after an 
angry scere with his servant, he would be found going 
round among the men bestowing little luxuries and kind 
words; not condescendingly, but humbly, as if it was 
an atonement for his own shortcomings, and a tribute 


THE COLONEL. 395 


due to the brave fellows who bore their pains with a 
fortitude he could not imitate. 

“Poor Philip, he tries so hard I must pity, not de- 
spise him; for he was never taught the manly virtues 
that make David what he is,” thought Christie, as she 
went to him one day with an unusually happy heart. 

She found him sitting with a newly opened package 
before him, and a gloomy look upon his face. 

“See what rubbish one of my men has sent me, think- 
ing I might value it,” he said, pointing to a broken 
sword-hilt and offering her a badly written letter. 

She read it, and was touched by its affectionate respect 
and manly sympathy ; for the good fellow had been one 
of those who saved the Colonel when he fell, and had 
kept the broken sword as a trophy of his bravery, 
“ thinking it might be precious in the eyes of them that 
loved him.” 

“ Poor Burny might have spared himself the trouble, 
for I’ve no one to give it to, and in my eyes it’s nothing 
but a bit of old metal,” said Fletcher, pushing the par- 
cel away with a half-irritated, half-melancholy look. 

“Give it to me as a parting keepsake. I have a fine 
collection of relics of the brave men I have known; and 
this shall have a high place in my museum when I go 
home,” said Christie, taking up the “ bit of old metal” 
with more interest than she had ever felt in the bright- 
est blade. 

“Parting keepsake! are you going away?” asked 
Fletcher, catching at the words in anxious haste, yet 
looking pleased at her desire to keep the relic. 

“Yes, I’m ordered to report in Washington, and 
start to-morrow.” 


096 WORK. 


“Then Ill go as escort. The doctor has been want- 
ing me to leave for a week, and-now I’ve no desire to 
stay,” he said eagerly. 

But Christie shook her head, and began to fold up 
paper and string with nervous industry as she answered : 

“Tam not going directly to Washington: I have a 
week’s furlough first.” 

«“ And what is to become of me ?” asked Mr. Fletcher, 
as fretfully as a sick child ; for he knew where her short 
holiday would be passed, and his temper got the upper- 
hand for a minute. 

“You should go home and be comfortably nursed: 
you'll need care for some time; and your friends will 
be glad of a chance to give it I’ve no doubt.” 

“T have no home, as you know; and I don’t believe 
I’ve got a friend in the world who cares whether I 
live or die.” 

“ This looks as if you were mistaken;” and Christie 
glanced about the little room, which was full of com- 
forts and luxuries accumulated during his stay. 

His face changed instantly, and he answered with 
the honest look and tone never given to any one but 
her. 

“I beg your pardon: I’m an ungrateful brute. But 
you see I’d just made up my mind to do something 
worth the doing, and now it is made impossible in 
a way that renders it hard to bear. You are very 
patient with me, and I owe my life to your care: 
I never can thank you for it; but I will take myself 
out of your way as soon as I can, and leave you free 
to enjoy your happy holiday. Heaven knows you 
have earned it!” 


LITTLE HEART’S-EASE. 409 


Few believed in the prophecy; but Mrs. Wilkins 
stoutly repeated it and watched over Christie like a 
mother; often trudging up the lane in spite of wind or 
weather to bring some dainty mess, some remarkable 
puzzle in red or yellow calico to be used as a pattern 
for the little garments the three women sewed with 
sugh tender interest, consecrated with such tender 
tears; or news of the war fresh from Lisha who “ was 
goin’ to see it through ef he come home without a leg 
to stand on.” A cheery, hopeful, wholesome influence 
she brought with her, and all the house seemed to 
brighten as she sat there freeing her mind upon every 
subject that came up, from the delicate little shirts Mrs. 
Sterling knit in spite of failing eyesight, to the fall of 
Richmond, which, the prophetic spirit being strong 
within her, Mrs. Wilkins foretold with sibylline pre- 
cision. 

She alone could win a faint smile from Christie with 
some odd saying, some shrewd opinion, and she alone 
brought tears to the melancholy eyes that sorely needed 
such healing dew; for she carried little Adelaide, and 
without a word put her into Christie’s arms, there to 
cling and smile and babble till she had soothed the 
bitter pain and hunger of a suffering heart. 

She and Mr. Power held Christie up through that 
hard time, ministering to soul and body with their 
hope and faith till life grew possible again, and from 
the dust of a great affliction rose the sustaining power 
she had sought so long. 

As spring came on, and victory after victory pro- 
claimed that the war was drawing to an end, Christie’s 
sad resignation was broken by gusts of grief so stormy, 

18 


410 WORK. 


80 inconsolable, that those about her trembled for her 
life. It was so hard to see the regiments come home 
proudly bearing the torn battle-flags, weary, wounded, 
but victorious, to be rapturously welcomed, thanked, 
and honored by the grateful country they had served 
so well; to see all this and think of David in his grave 
unknown, unrewarded, and forgotten by all but a fajth- 
ful few. 

“TI used to dream of a time like this, to hope and 
plan for it, and cheer myself with the assurance that, 
after all our hard work, our long separation, and the 
dangers we had faced, David would get some honor, 
receive some reward, at least be kept for me to love 
and serve and live with fora little while. But these 
men who have merely saved a banner, led a charge, or 
lost an arm, get all the glory, while he gave his life so 
See 
nobly; yet few know it, no one thanked him, and I am 
left desolate when so many useless ones might have 
been taken in his place. Oh, it is not just! I cannot 
forgive God for robbing him of all his honors, and me 
of all my happiness.” 

So lamented Christie with the rebellious protest of a 
strong nature learning submission through the stern 
discipline of grief. In vain Mr. Power told her that 
David had received a better reward than any human 
hand could give him, in the gratitude of many women, 
the respect of many men. That to do bravely the 
daily duties of an upright life was more heroic in God’s 
sight, than to achieve in an enthusiastic moment a 
single deed that won the world’s applause; and that 
the seeming incompleteness of his life was beautifully 
rounded by the act that caused his death, although no 


: 
: 


THE COLONEL. 397 


Tle said those last words so heartily that all the bit- 
terness went out of his voice, and Christie found it 
easy to reply with a cordial smile : 

“JT shall stay and see you comfortably off before I go 
myself. As for thanks and reward I have had both; 
for you have done something worth the doing, and you 
give me this.” 

She took up the broken blade as she spoke, and car- 
ried it away, looking proud of her new trophy. 

Fletcher left next day, saying, while he pressed her 
hand as warmly as if the vigor of two had gone into 
his one: 

“ You will let me come and see you by and by when 
you too get your discharge: won’t you?” 

“So gladly that you shall never again say you have 
no home. But you must take care of yourself, or you 
will get the long discharge, and we can’t spare you 
yet,” she answered warmly. 

“No danger of that: the worthless ones are too 
often left to cumber the earth; it is the precious ones 
who are taken,” he said, thinking of her as he looked 
into her tired face, and remembered all she had done 
for him. 

Christie shivered involuntarily at those ominous 
words, but only said, “Good-by, Philip,” as he went 
feebly away, leaning on his servant’s arm, while all the 
men touched their caps and wished the Colonel a 
pleasant journey. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
SUNRISE. 


HREE months later the war seemed drawing 

toward an end, and Christie was dreaming happy 
dreams of home and rest with David, when, as she sat 
one day writing a letter full of good news to the 
wife of a patient, a telegram was handed to her, and 
tearing it open she read: 


“Captain Sterling dangerously wounded. Tell his wife to 
come at once. E. WIirxrys.” 


“ No bad news I hope, ma’am ?” said the young fel- 
low anxiously, as his half-written letter fluttered to the 
ground, and Christie sat looking at that fateful strip of 
paper with all the strength afid color stricken out of 
her face by the fear that fell upon her. 

“Tt might be worse. They told me he was dying 
once, and when I got to him he met me at the door. 
Ill hope for the best now as I did then, but I never 
felt like this before,” and she hid her face as if daunted 
by ominous forebodings too strong to be controlled. 

In a moment she was up and doing as calm and steady 
as if her heart was not torn by an anxiety too keen 


SUNRISE. 399 


for words. By the time the news had flown through 
the house, she was ready; and, coming down with no 
luggage but a basket of comforts on her arm, she found 
the hall full of wan and crippled creatures gathered 
there to see her off, for no nurse in the hospital was 
more beloved than Mrs. Sterling. Many eyes followed 
her, —many lips blessed her, many hands were out- 
stretched for a sympathetic grasp: and, as the ambu- 
lance went clattering away, many hearts echoed the 
words of one grateful ghost of aman, “The Lord go 
with her and stand by her as she’s stood by us.” 

It was not a long journey that lay before her; but to 
Christie it seemed interminable, for all the way one un- 
answerable question haunted her, “ Surely God will not 
be so cruel as to take David now when he has done his 
part so well and the reward is so near.” 

It was dark when she arrived at the appointed spot; 
but Elisha Wilkins was there to receive her, and to her 
first breathless question, “ How is David?” answered 
briskly : 

“ Asleep and doin’ well, ma’am. At least I should 
say so, and I peeked at him the last thing before I 
started.” 

“ Where is he?” 

“In the little hospital over yonder. Camp warn’t no 
place for him, and I fetched him here as the nighest, and 
the best thing I could do for him.” 

“How is he wounded ?” 

“Shot in the shoulder, side, and arm.” 

“Dangerously you said ?” 

“ No, ma’am, that warn’t and ain’t my opinion. The 
sergeant sent that telegram, and I think he done wrong. 


400 WORK. 


The Captain is hit pretty bad; but it ain’t by no means 
desperate accordin’ to my way of thinkin’,” replied the 
hopeful Wilkins, who seemed mercifully gifted with an 
unusual flow of language. 

“Thank heaven! Now go on and tell me all about 
it as fast as you can,” commanded Christie, walking 
along the rough road so rapidly that Private Wilkins 
would have been distressed both in wind and limb if 
discipline and hardship had not done much for him. 

“ Well, you see we’ve been skirmishin’ round here 
for a week, for the woods are full of rebs waitin’ to 
surprise some commissary stores that’s expected along. 
Contrabands is always comin’ into camp, and we do the 
best we can for the poor devils, and send ’em along 
where they’ll be safe. Yesterday four women and a// 
boy come: about as desperate a lot as I ever see; for 
they’d been two days and a night in the big swamp, 
wadin’ up to their waists in mud and water, with nothin’ 
to eat, and babies on their backs all the way. Every ’ 
woman had a child, one dead, but she’d fetched it, ‘so 
it might be buried free,’ the poor soul said.” 

Mr. Wilkins stopped an instant as if for breath, bit 
the thought of his own “little chaps” filled his heart 
with pity for that bereaved mother; and he understood 
now why decent men were willing to be shot and 
starved for “the confounded niggers,” as he once called. 
them. - 

“ Go on,” said Christie, and he made haste to tell the 
little story that was so full of intense interest to his 
listener. 

“T never saw the Captain so worked up as he was by 
the sight of them wretched women. He fed and warmed 


SUNRISE. 401 


’em, comforted their poor scared souls, give what clothes 
we could find, buried the dead baby with his own 
hands, and nussed the other little creeters as if they 
were his own. It warn’t safe to keep ’em more’n a 
day, so when night come the Captain got ’em off down 
the river as quiet as he could. Me and another man 
helped him, for he wouldn’t trust no one but himself to 
boss the job. A boat was ready, — blest if I know how 
he got it, —and about midnight we led them women 
down to it. The boy was a strong lad, and any of ’em 
could help row, for the current would take ’em along 
rapid. This way, ma’am; be we goin’ too fast for you?” 

“ Not fast enough. Finish quick.” 

“ We got down the bank all right, the Captain stand- 
ing in the little path that led to the river to keep guard, 
while Bates held the boat stiddy and I put the women 
in. Things was goin’ lovely when the poor gal who’d 
lost her baby must needs jump out and run up to thank 
the Captain agin for all he’d done for her. Some of 
them sly rascals was watchin’ the river: they see her, 
heard Bates call out, ‘Come back, wench; come back!’ 
and they fired. She did come back like a shot, and we 
give that boat a push that sent it into the middle of 
the stream. Then we run along below the bank, and 
come out further down to draw off the rebs. Some 
followed us and we give it to ’em handsome. But 
some warn’t deceived, and we heard ’em firin’ away at 
the Captain; so we got back to him as fast as we could, 
but it warn’t soon enough.— Take my arm, Mis’ Ster- 
lin’: it’s kinder rough here.” 

“And you found him ?” — 

“Lyin’ right acrost the path with two dead men in 


Z 


| 


402 WORK. 


front of him; for he’d kep ’em off like a lion till the 
firin’ brought up a lot of our fellers and the rebs ske- 
daddled. I thought he was dead, for by the starlight 
I see he was bleedin’ awful, —hold on, my dear, hold 
on to me, — he warn ’t, thank God, and looked up at me 
and sez, sez he, ‘Are they safe?’ ‘They be, Captain, 
sez I. ‘Then it’s all right,’ sez he, smilin’ in that 
bright way of his, and then dropped off as quiet as a 
lamb. We got him back to camp double quick, and 
when the surgeon see them three wounds he shook his 
head, and I mistrusted that it warn’t no joke. So when 
the Captain come to I asked him what I could do or 
git for him, and he answered in a whisper, ‘ My wife.’ ” 

For an instant Christie did “hold on” to Mr. Wilkins’s 
arm, for those two words seemed to take all her strength 
away. Then the thought that David was waiting for 
her strung her nerves and gave her courage to bear 
any thing. | 

“Ts he here?” she asked of her guide a moment 
later, as he stopped before a large, half-ruined house, 
through whose windows dim lights and figures were 
seen moving to and fro. 

“Yes, ma’am; we’ve made a hospital of this; the 
Captain’s got the best room in it, and now he’s got the 
best nuss that’s goin’ anywheres. Won’t you have a drop 
of something jest as a stand-by before you see him?” 

“ Nothing; take me to him at once.” 

“ Here we be then. Still sleepin’: that looks well.” 

Mr. Wilkins softly led the way down a long hall, 
opened a door, and after one look fell back and saluted 
as the Captain’s wife passed in. 

A surgeon was bending over the low bed, and when 
a hoarse voice at his elbow asked: 


SUNRISE. 403 


“How is he?” The doctor answered without look- 
ing up: 

“ Done for: this shot through the lungs will finish 
him before morning I’m afraid.” 

“Then leave him to me: I am his wife,” said the 
voice, clear and sharp now with the anguish those Lard 
words had brought. 

“ Good God, why did no one tell me! My dear lady, 
I thought you were a nurse!” cried the poor surgeon 
rent with remorse for what now seemed the brutal 
frankness of his answer, as he saw the white face of 
the woman at his side, with a look in her eyes harder 
to see than the bitterest tears that ever fell. 

“Tama nurse. Ifyou can do nothing, please go and 
leave him to me the little while he has to live.” 

Without a word the surgeon vanished, and Christie 
was alone with David. 

The instant she saw him she felt that there was no 
hope, for she had seen too many faces wear the look his 
wore to be deceived even by her love. Lying with 
closed eyes already sunken by keen suffering, hair damp 
with the cold dew on his forehead, a scarlet spot on 
either cheek, gray lines about the mouth, and pale lips 
parted by the painful breaths that came in heavy gasps 
or fluttered fitfully. This was what Christie saw, and 
after that long look she knew the truth, and sunk down 
beside the bed, crying with an exceeding bitter cry: 

“O David, O my husband, must I give you up so 
soon ?” 

His eyes opened then, and he turned his cheek to 
hers, whispering with a look that tried to be a smile, 
but ended in a sigh of satisfaction : 


404 WORK. 


“JT knew you’d come;” then, as a tearless sob shook 
her from head to foot, he added steadily, though each 
breath cost a pang, “ Yes, dear, I must go first, but it 
won't be hard with you to help me do it bravely.” 

In that supremely bitter moment there returned to 
Christie’s memory certain words of the marriage service 
that had seemed so beautiful when she took part in it: 
“ For better for worse, till death us do part.” She had 
known the better, so short, so sweet! This was the worse, 
and till death came she must keep faithfully the promise 
made with such a happy heart. The thought brought 
with it unexpected strength, and gave her courage to 
crush down her grief, seal up her tears, and show a 
brave and tender face as she took that feeble hand in 
hers ready to help her husband die. 

He saw and thanked her for the effort, felt the 
sustaining power of a true wife’s heart, and seemed 
to have no other care, since she was by him stead- 
fast to the end. He lay looking at her with such 
serene and happy eyes that she would not let a tear, 
a murmur, mar his peace; and for a little while she 
felt as if she had gone out of ‘this turbulent world 
into a heavenly one, where love reigned supreme. 

But such hours are as brief as beautiful, and at 
midnight mortal suffering proved that immortal joy 
had not yet begun. : 

Christie had sat by many death-beds, but never one 
like this; for, through all the bitter pangs that tried 
his flesh, David’s soul remained patient and strong, 
upheld by the faith that conquers pain and makes 
even Death a friend. In the quiet time that went be- 
fore, he had told his last wishes, given his last mes- 


SUNRISE. 405 


sages of love, and now had but one desire, — to go soon 
that Christie might be spared the trial of seeing suf- 
fering she could neither lighten nor share. 

“Go and rest, dear; go and rest,” he whispered more 
than once. “ Let Wilkins come: this is too much for 
you. I thought it would be easier, but I am so strong 
life fights for me inch by inch.” 

But Christie would not go, and for her sake David 
made haste to die. 

Hour after hour the tide ebbed fast, hour after hour 
the man’s patient soul sat waiting for release, and 
hour after hour the woman’s passionate heart clung 
to the love that seemed drifting away leaving her 
alone upon the shore. Once or twice she could not 
bear it, and cried out in her despair: 

“No, it is not just that you should suffer this for 
a creature whose whole life is not worth a day of 
your brave, useful, precious one! Why did you pay 
such a price for that girl’s liberty?” she said, as the 
thought of her own wrecked future fell upon her dark 
and heavy. 

“ Because I owed it;— she suffered more than this 
seeing her baby die; I thought of yow in her place, 
and I could not help doing it.” 

The broken answer, the reproachful look, wrung 
Christie’s heart, and she was silent: for, in all the 
knightly tales she loved so well, what Sir Galahad had 
rescued a more wretched, wronged, and helpless woman 
than the poor soul whose dead baby David buried ten- 
derly before he bought the mother’s freedom with his 
life ? 

Only one regret escaped him as the end drew very 


406 - WORK. 


near, and mortal weakness brought relief from mortal 
pain. The first red streaks of dawn shone in the east, 
and his dim eyes brightened at the sight; 

“Such a beautiful world!” he whispered with the 
ghost of a smile, “and so much good work to do in 
it, I wish I could stay and help a little longer,” he 
added, while the shadow deepened on his face. But 
soon he said, trying to press Christie’s hand, still hold- 
ing his: “ You will do my part, and do it better than 
I could. Don’t mourn, dear~heart, but work; and by 
and by you will be comforted.” 

“J will try; but I think I shall soon follow you, 
and need no comfort here,” answered Christie, already 
finding consolation inthe thought. “ What is it, 


‘* Don’ T MOURN, DEAR HEART, BUT WORK. 


SUNRISE. 407 


David ?” she asked a little later, as she saw his eyes 
turn wistfully toward the window where the rosy glow 
was slowly creeping up the sky. 

“T want to see the sun rise;—that used to be our 
happy time ;— turn my face toward the light, Christie, 
and we’ll wait for it together.” 

An hour later when the first pale ray crept in at 
the low window, two faces lay upon the pillow; one 
full of the despairing grief for which there seems no 
balm; the other with lips and eyes of solemn peace, 
and that mysterious expression, lovelier than any smile, 
which death leaves as a tender token that all is well 
with the new-born soul. 

To Christie that was the darkest hour of the dawn, 
but for David sunrise had already come. 


CHAPTER XIX. 
LITTLE HEART’S-EASE. 


HEN it was all over, the long journey home, 
the quiet funeral, the first sad excitement, then 
came the bitter moment when life says to the bereaved : 
“Take up your burden and go on alone.” Christie’s 
had been the still, tearless grief hardest to bear, most 
impossible to comfort; and, while Mrs. Sterling bore 
her loss with the sweet patience of a pious heart, and 
Letty mourned her brother with the tender sorrow that 
finds relief in natural ways, the widow sat among them 
as tranquil, colorless, and mute, as if her soul had fol- 
lowed David, leaving the shadow of her former self 
behind. 

“He will not come to me, but I shall go to him,” 
seemed to be the thought that sustained her, and those 
who loved her said despairingly to one another: “ Her 
heart is broken : she will not linger long.” 

But one woman wise in her own motherliness always 
answered hopefully: “ Don’t you be troubled; Nater 
knows what’s good for us, and works in her own way. 
Hearts like this don’t break, and sorrer only makes ’em 
_ stronger. Youmark my words: the blessed baby that’s 
| @ comin’ in the summer will work a merrycle, and 
youll see this poor dear a happy woman yet.” 


LITTLE HEART’S-EASE, 41] 


eulogy recorded it, no song embalmed it, and few knew 
it but those he saved, those he loved, and the Great 
Commander who promoted him to the higher*rank he 
had won. 

Christie could not be content with this invisible, 
intangible recompense for her hero: she wanted to see, 
to know beyond a doubt, that justice had been done; 
and beat herself against the barrier that baffles bereaved 
humanity till impatient despair was wearied out, and 
passionate heart gave up the struggle. 

Then, when no help seemed possible, she found it 
where she least expected it, in herself. Searching for | 
religion, she had found love: now seeking to follow love 
she found religion. The desire for it had never left 
her, and, while serving others, she was earning this 
reward ; for when her life seemed to lie in ashes, from 
their midst, this slender spire of flame, purifying while 
it burned, rose trembling toward heaven; showing her 
how great sacrifices turn to greater compensations ; 
giving her light, warmth, and consolation, and teach- 
ing her the lesson all must learn. 

God was very patient with her, sending much help, 
anc letting her climb up to Him by all the tender ways 
in which aspiring souls can lead unhappy hearts. 

David’s room had been her refuge when those dark 
hours came, and sitting there one day trying to under- 
stand the great mystery that parted her from David, 
she seemed to receive an answer to her many prayers 
for some sign that death had not estranged them. The 
house was very still, the window open, and a soft south 
wind was wandering through the room with hints of 
May-flowers on its wings. Suddenly a breath of music 


412 WORK. 


startled her, so airy, sweet, and short-lived that no 
human voice or hand could have produced it. Again 
and again it came, a fitful and melodious sigh, that 
to one made superstitious by much sorrow, seemed like 
a spirit’s voice delivering some message from another 
world. 

Christie looked and listened with hushed breath and 
expectant heart, believing that some special answer was 
to be given her. But ina moment she saw it was no 
supernatural sound, only the south wind whispering in 
David’s flute that hung beside the window. Disap- 
pointment came first, then warm over her sore heart 
flowed the tender recollection that she used to call the 
old flute “ David’s voice,” for into it he poured the joy 
and sorrow, unrest and pain, he told no living soul. 
How often it had been her lullaby, before she learned 
to read its language; how gaily it had piped for others ; 
how plaintively it had sung for him, alone and in the 
night; and now how full of pathetic music was that 
hymn of consolation fitfully whispered by the wind’s 
soft breath. 

Ah, yes! this was a better answer than any super- 
natural voice could have given her; a more helpful sign 
than any phantom face or hand; a surer confirmation of 
her hope than subtle argument or sacred promise: for 
it brought back the memory of the living, loving man 
so vividly, so tenderly, that Christie felt as if the barrier 
was down, and welcomed a new sense of David’s near- 
ness with the softest tears that had flowed since she 
closed the serene eyes whose last look had been for 
her. 

After that hour she spent the long spring days lying 


LITTLE HEART’S-EASE. 413 


on the old couch in his room, reading his books, think- 
ing of his love and life, and listening to “ David’s voice.” 
She always heard it now, whether the wind touched 
the flute with airy fingers or it hung mute; and it sung 
to her songs of patience, hope, and cheer, till a myste- 
rious peace came to her, and she discovered in herself 
the strength she had asked, yet never thought to find. 
Under the snow, herbs of grace had been growing 
silently ; and, when the heavy rains had melted all the 
frost away, they sprung up to blossom beautifully in the 
sun that shines for every spire of grass, and makes it 
perfect in its time and place. 

Mrs. Wilkins was right; for one June morning, when 
she laid “that blessed baby” in its mother’s arms, 
Christie’s first words were: 

“Don’t let me die: I must live for baby now,” and 
gathered David’s little daughter to her breast, as if the 
soft touch of the fumbling hands had healed every 
wound and brightened all the world. 

“TI told youso; God bless’em both!” and Mrs. Wil- 
kins retired precipitately to the hall, where she sat down 
upon the stairs and cried most comfortable tears; for 
her maternal heart was full of a thanksgiving too deep 
for words. 

A sweet, secluded time to Christie, as she brooded 
over her little treasure and forgot there was a world 
outside. A fond and jealous mother, but a very happy 
one, for after the bitterest came the tenderest experi- 
ence of her life. She felt its sacredness, its beauty, and 
its high responsibilities; accepted them prayerfully, 
and found unspeakable delight in fitting herself to bear 
hem worthily, always remembering that she had a 


414 WORK. 


double duty to perform toward the fatherless little 
creature given to her care. 

It is hardly necessary to mention the changes one 
small individual made in that feminine household. The 
purring and clucking that went on; the panics over a 
pin-prick; the consultations over a pellet of chamo- 
milla; the raptures at the dawn of a first smile; the 
solemn prophecies of future beauty, wit, and wisdom in 
the bud of a woman; the general adoration of the 
entire family at the wicker shrine wherein lay the idol, 
a mass of flannel and cambric with a bald head at one 
end, and a pair of microscopic blue socks at the other. 
Mysterious little porringers sat unreproved upon the 
parlor fire, small garments aired at every window, 
lights burned at unholy hours, and three agitated night- 
caps congregated at the faintest chirp of the restless 
bird in the maternal nest. 

Of course Grandma grew young again, and produced 
nursery reminiscences on every occasion; Aunt Letty 
trotted day and night to gratify the imaginary wants 
of the idol, and Christie was so entirely absorbed that 
the whole South might have been swallowed up by an 
earthquake without causing her as much consternation 
as the appearance of a slight rash upon the baby. 

No flower in David’s garden throve like his little June 
rose, for no wind was allowed to visit her too roughly ; 
and when rain fell without, she took her daily airing in 
the green-house, where from her mother’s arms she soon 
regarded the gay sight with such sprightly satistaction 
that she seemed a little flower herself dancing on its 
stem. 

She was named Ruth for grandma, but Christie 


LITTLE HEART S-EASE. 415 


always called her “ Little Heart’s-ease,” or “ Pansy,” and 
those who smiled at first at the mother’s fancy, came in 
time to see that there was an unusual fitness in the 
name. All the bitterness seemed taken out of Chris- 
tie’s sorrow by the soft magic of the child: there was 
so much to live for now she spoke no more of dying; 
and, holding that little hand in hers, it grew easier to 
go on along the way that led to David. 

A prouder mother never lived; and, as baby waxed 
in beauty and in strength, Christie longed for all the 
world to see her. A sweet, peculiar, little face she had, 
sunny and fair; but, under the broad forehead where 
the bright hair fell as David’s used to do, there shone 
a pair of dark and solemn eyes, so large, so deep, and 
often so unchildlike, that her mother wondered where 
she got them. Even when she smiled the shadow ling- 
ered in these eyes, and when she wept they filled and 
overflowed with great, quiet tears like flowers too full 
of dew. Christie often said remorsefully : 

“My little Pansy! I put my own sorrow into your \ 
baby soul, and now it looks back ‘at me with this 
strange wistfulness, and these great drops are the un- 
submissive tears I locked up in my heart because [ 
would not be grateful for the good gift God gave me, 
even while he took that other one away. O Baby, 
forgive your mother; and don’t let her find that she 
has given you clouds instead of sunshine.” 

This fear helped Christie to keep her own face cheer- 
ful, her own heart tranquil, her own life as sunny, 
healthful, and hopeful as she wished her child’s to be. 
For this reason she took garden and green-house into 
her own hands when Bennet gave them up, and, with a 


416 WOK. 


stout lad to help her, did well this part of the work 
that David bequeathed to her. It was a pretty sight 
to see the mother with her year-old daughter out 
among the fresh, green things: the little golden head 
bobbing here and there like a stray sunbeam; the baby 
voice telling sweet, unintelligible stories to bird and 
bee and butterfly; or the small creature fast asleep in 
a basket under a rose-bush, swinging in a hammock 
from a tree, or in Bran’s keeping, rosy, vigorous, and 
sweet with sun and air, and the wholesome influence 
of a wise and tender love. 

While Christie worked she planned her daughter’s 
future, as mothers will, and had but one care concern- 
ing it. She did not fear poverty, but the thought of 
being straitened for the means of educating little 
Ruth afflicted her. She meant to teach her to labor 
heartily and see no degradation in it, but she could not 
bear to feel that her child should be denied the harm- 
less pleasures that make youth sweet, the opportunities 
that educate, the society that ripens character and 
gives a rank which money cannot buy. A little sum to 
put away for Baby, safe from all risk, ready to draw 
from as each need came, and sacredly devoted to this 
end, was now Christie’s sole ambition. 

With this purpose at her heart, she watched her 
fruit and nursed her flowers; found no task too hard, 
no sun too hot, no weed too unconquerable; and soon 
the garden David planted when his life seemed barren, 
yielded lovely harvests to swell his little daughter's 
portion. 

One day Christie received a letter from Uncle Enos 
expressing a wish to see her if she cared to come so 


LITTLE HEART’S-EASE, 417 


, 
far and “stop a spell.” It both surprised and pleased 
her, and she resolved to go, glad that the old man 
remembered her, and proud to show him the great suc- 
cess of her life, as she considered Baby. 

So she went, was hospitably received by the ancient 
cousin five times removed who kept house, and greeted 
with as much cordiality as Uncle Enos ever showed to 
any one. He looked askance at Baby, as if he had 
not bargained for the honor of her presence; but he 
said nothing, and Christie wisely refrained from men- 
tioning that Ruth was the most remarkable child ever 
born. 

She soon felt at home, and went about the old house 
Visiting familiar nooks with the bitter, sweet satisfaction 
of such returns. It was sad to miss Aunt Betsey in the 
big kitchen, strange to see Uncle Enos sit all day in his 
arm-chair too helpless now to plod about the farm and 
carry terror to the souls of those who served him. He 
was still a crabbed, gruff, old man; but the narrow, 
hard, old heart was a little softer than it used to be; and 
he sometimes betrayed the longing for his kindred that 
the aged often feel when infirmity makes them desire 
tenderer props than any they can hire. 

Christie saw this wish, and tried to gratify it with a 
dutiful affection which could not fail to win its way. 
Baby unconsciously lent a hand, for Uncle Enos could 
not long withstand the sweet enticements of this little 
kinswoman. He did not own the conquest in words, 
but was seen to cuddle his small captivator in private; 
allowed all sorts of liberties with his spectacles, his 
pockets, and bald pate; and never seemed more com- 


fortable than when she confiscated his newspaper, and 
18* AA ; 


418 WORK. 


4 


sitting on his knee read it to him in a pretty language 
of her own. 

“She ’s a.good little gal; looks consid’able like you, 
but you warn’t never such a quiet puss as she is,” he 
said one day, as the child was toddling about the room 
with an old doll of her mother’s lately disinterred from 
its tomb in the garret. 

“She is like her father in that. But I get quieter as 
I grow old, uncle,” answered Christie, who sat sewing 
near him. 

“You be growing old, that’s a fact; but somehow 
it’s kind of becomin’. I never thought you’d be so 
much of a lady, and look so well after all you’ve ben 
through,” added Uncle Enos, vainly trying to discover 
what made Christie’s manners so agreeable in spite of 
her plain dress, and her face so pleasant in spite of the 
gray hair at her temples and the lines about her 
mouth. 

It grew still pleasanter to see as she smiled and 
looked up at him with the soft yet bright expression 
that always made him think of her mother. 

“T’m glad you don’t consider me an entire failure, 
uncle. You know you predicted it. But though I 


_have gone through a good deal, I don’t regret my 
attempt, and when I look at Pansy I feel as if I’d made 


a grand success.” 

“You haven’t made much money, I guess. If you 
don’t mind tellin’, what have you got to live on?’ 
asked the old man, unwilling to acknowledge any life 
a success, if dollars and cents were left out of it. 

“Only David’s pension and what I can make by my 
garden.” 


LITTLE HEART’S-EASE. 419 


“The old lady has to have some on’t, don’t she ?” 

“She has a little money of her own; but I see that 
she and Letty have two-thirds of all I make.” 

“That ain’t a fair bargain if you do all the work.” 

« Ah, but we don’t make bargains, sir: we work for 
one another and share every thing together.” 

“ So like women!” grumbled Uncle Enos, longing to 
see that “the property was fixed up square.” 


SAN 
Dp 


—= 


VSS 
NEN 


‘6 Sue’s A GOOD LITTLE GAL; LOOKS CONSID’ABLE LIKE YOU.” 


420 WORK. 


“TIow are you goin’ to eddicate the little gal? I 
s’pose you think as much of culter and so on as ever 
you did,” he presently added with a gruff laugh. 

“More,” answered Christie, smiling too, as she remem- 
bered the old quarrels. “I shall earn the money, sir. 
If the garden fails I can teach, nurse, sew, write, cook 
even, for I’ve half a dozen useful accomplishments at 
my fingers’ ends, thanks to the education you and dear 
Aunt Betsey gave me, and I may have to use them all 


for Pansy’s sake.” 


Pleased by the compliment, yet a little conscience- 


\stricken at the small share he deserved of it, Uncle Enos 


sat rubbing up his glasses a minute, before he led to the 
subject he had in his mind. 

“Kf you fall sick or die, what then ?” 

“T’ve thought of that,” and Christie caught up the 
child as if her love could keep even death at bay. But 
Pansy soon struggled down again, for the dirty-faced 
doll was taking a walk and could not be detained. “If 
I am taken from her, then my little girl must do as her 
mother did. God has orphans in His special care, and 
He won't forget her I am sure.” 

Uncle Enos had 2 coughing spell just then; and, when 
he got over it, he said with an effort, for even to talk 
of giving away his substance cost him a pang: 

“I’m gettin’ into years now, and it’s about time I 
fixed up matters in case I’m took suddin’. I always 
meant to give you a little suthing, but as you didn’t 
ask for’t, I took good care on’t, and it ain’t none the 
worse for waitin’ a spell. I jest speak on’t, so you 
needn’t be anxious about the little gal. It ain’t mucb, 
but it will make things easy I reckon.” 


LITTLE HEART S-EASE. 421 


“You are very kind, uncle; and I am more grateful 
than I can tell. I don’t want a penny for myself, but I 
should love to know that my daughter was to have an 
easier life than mine.” 

“T spose you thought of that when you come so 
quick ?” said the old man, with a suspicious look, that 
made Christie’s eyes kindle as they used to years ago, 
but she answered honestly: 

“J did think of it and hope it, yet I should have 
come quicker if you had been in the poor-house.” 

Neither spoke for a minute; for, in spite of generosity 
and gratitude, the two natures struck fire when they 
met as inevitably as flint and steel. 

“ What’s your opinion of missionaries,” asked Uncle 
Enos, after a spell of meditation. 


“Tf I had any money to leave them, I should be-, 


queath it to those who help the heathen here at home, 
and should let the innocent Feejee Islanders worship 
their idols a little longer in benighted peace,” answered 
Christie, in her usual decided way. 

“That ’s my idee exactly ; but it’s uncommon hard to 
settle which of them that stays at home you’ll trust 
your money to. You see Betsey was always pesterin’ 
me to give to charity things ; but I told her it was bet- 
ter to save up and give it in a handsome lump that 
looked well, and was a credit to you. When she was 
dyin’ she reminded me on’t, and I promised I’d do 
suthing before I follered. I’ve been turnin’ on’t over 
in my mind for a number of months, and I don’t 
seem to find any thing that’s jest right. You’ve ben 
round among the charity folks lately accordin’ to your 
tell, now what would you do if you had a tidy little 
sum to dispose on?” 


422 WORK. 


“Help the Freed people.” 

The answer came so quick that it nearly took the old 
gentleman’s breath away, and he looked at his niece 
with his mouth open after an involuntary, “Sho!” 
had escaped him. 

“ David helped give them their liberty, and I would 
so gladly help them to enjoy it!” cried Christie, all the 
old enthusiasm blazing up, but with a clearer, steadier 
flame than in the days when she dreamed splendid 
dreams by the kitchen fire. 

“ Well, no, that wouldn’t meet my views. What 
else is there?” asked the old man quite unwarmed by 
her benevolent ardor. 

“Wounded soldiers, destitute children, _ill-paid 
Women, young people struggling for independence, 
homes, hospitals, schools, churches, and God’s charity 
all over the world.” 

“That’s the pesky part on’t: there’s such a lot 
to choose from; I don’t know much about any of ’em,” 
began Uncle Enos, looking like a perplexed raven with 
a treasure which it cannot decide where to hide. 

“Whose fault is that, sir?” 

The question hit the old man full in the conscience, 
and he winced, remembering how many of Betsey’s 
charitable impulses he had nipped in the bud, and 
now all the accumulated alms she would have been 
so glad to scatter weighed upon him heavily. He 
rubbed his bald head with a yellow bandana, and 
moved uneasily in his chair, as if he wanted to get up 
and finish the neglected job that made his helplessness 
so burdensome. 

“J °ll ponder on’t a spell, and make up my mind,” 
was all he said, and never renewed the subject again. 


LITTLE HEART’S-EASE. 423 


But he had very little time to ponder, and he never 
did make up his mind; for a few months after Christie’s 
long visit ended, Uncle Enos “ was took suddin’,” and 
left all he had to her. 

Not an immense fortune, but far larger than she ex- 
pected, and great was her anxiety to use wisely this 
unlooked-for benefaction. She was very grateful, but 
she kept nothing for herself, feeling that David’s pen- 
sion was enough, and preferring the small sum he earned 
so dearly to the thousands the old man had hoarded up 
for years. A good portion was put by for Ruth, some- 
thing for “mother and Letty ” that want might never 
touch them, and the rest she kept for David’s work, 
believing that, so spent, the money would be blest. 4 A 


CHAPTER XX. 
AT FORTY. 


“ EARLY twenty years since I set out to seek my 

fortune. It has been a long search, but I think 
IT have found it at last. } I only asked to be a useful, 
happy woman, and my wish is granted: for, I believe 
I am useful ; I know I am happy.” 

Christie looked so as she sat alone in the flowery par- 
lor one September afternoon, thinking over her life with 
a grateful, cheerful spirit. Forty to-day, and pausing at 
that half-way house between youth and age, she looked 
back into the past without bitter regret or unsubmissive 
grief, and forward into the future with courageous pa- 

tience; for three good angels attended her, and with 
faith, hope, and charity to brighten life, no woman need 
lament lost youth or fear approaching age. Christie 
did not, and though her eyes filled with quiet tears as 
they were raised to the faded cap and sheathed sword 
hanging on the wall, none fell; and in a moment tender 
sorrow changed to still tenderer joy as her glance wan- 
dered to rosy little Ruth playing hospital with her dol- 
lies in the porch. Then they shone with genuine satis- 
faction as they went from the letters and papers on her 
table to the garden, where several young women were 


———— 


AT FORTY. 425 


at work with a healthful color in the cheeks that had 
been very pale and thin-imthe spring. 

“T think David is satisfied with me; for I have given 
all my heart and strength to his work, and it prospers 
well,” she said to herself; and then her face grew 
thoughtful, as she recalled a late event which seemed to 
have opened a new field of labor for her if she chose to 
enter it. 

A few evenings before she had gone to one of the 
many meetings of working-women, which had made 
some stir of late.” “Not a first visit, for she was much 
interested in the subject and full of sympathy for this 
class of workers. 

There were speeches of course, and of the most 
unparliamentary sort, for the meeting was composed 
almost entirely of women, each eager to tell her special 
grievance or theory. Any one who chose got up and 
spoke ; and whether wisely or foolishly each proved how 
great was the ferment now going on, and how difficult 
it was for the two classes to meet and help one another 
in spite of the utmost need on one side and the sin- 
cerest good-will on the other. The workers poured out 
their wrongs and hardships passionately or plaintively, 
demanding or imploring justice, sympathy, and help; 
displaying the ignorance, incapacity, and prejudice, 
which make their need all the more pitiful, their relief 
all thesmore imperative. 

The ladies did their part with kindliness, patience, 
and often unconscious condescension, showing in their 
turn how little they knew of the real trials of the 
women whom they longed to serve, how very narrow a 
sphere of usefulness they were fitted for in spite of cult- 


426 WORK. 


ure and intelligence, and how rich they were in gener- 
ous theories, how poor in practical methods of relief. 

One accomplished creature with learning radiating 
from every pore, delivered a charming little essay on 
the strong-minded women of antiquity; then, taking 
labor into the region of art, painted delightful pictures 
of the time when all would work harmoniously together 
in an Ideal Republic, where each did the task she liked, 
and was paid for it in liberty, equality, and fraternity. 

Unfortunately she talked over the heads of her audi- 
ence, and it was like telling fairy tales to hungry chil- 
dren to describe Aspasia discussing Greek politics with 
Pericles and Plato reposing upon ivory couches, or 
Hypatia modestly delivering philosophical lectures to 
young men behind a Tyrian purple curtain; and the 
Ideal Republic met with little favor from anxious seam- 
stresses, type-setters, and shop-girls, who said ungrate- 
fully among themselves, “ That’s all very pretty, The I 
don’t see how it’s going to better wages among us 
now.” 

Another eloquent sister gave them a political ora- 
tion which fired the revolutionary blood in their veins, 
and made them eager to rush to the State-house en 
masse, and demand the ballot before one-half of them 
were quite clear what it meant, and the other half were 
as unfit for it as any ignorant Patrick bribed with a 
dollar and a sup of whiskey. 

A. third well-wisher quenched their ardor like a wet 
blanket, by reading reports of sundry labor reforms in 
foreign parts ; most interesting, but made entirely futile 
by differences of climate, needs, and customs. She 
closed with a cheerful budget of statistics, giving the 


AT FORTY. 427 


exact number of needle-women who had starved, gone 

mad, or committed suicide during the past year; the 
enormous profits wrung by capitalists from the blood 
and muscles of their employés; and the alarming in- 
crease in the cost of living, which was about to plunge 
the nation into debt and famine, if not destruction 
generally. 

When she sat down despair was visible on many 
countenances, and immediate starvation seemed to be 
waiting at the door to clutch them as they went out; 
for the impressible creatures believed every word and 
saw no salvation anywhere. 

Christie had listened intently to all this ; had admired, 
regretted, or condemned as each spoke ; and felt a stead- 
ily increasing sympathy for all, and a strong desire to 
bring the helpers and the helped into truer relations 
with each other. 

The dear ladies were so earnest, so hopeful, and so 
unpractically benevolent, that it grieved her to see so 
much breath wasted, so much good-will astray; while 
the expectant, despondent, or excited faces of the work- 
women touched her heart ; for well she knew how much 
they needed help, how eager they were for light, how 
ready to be led if some one would only show a possible 
way. 

As the statistical extinguisher retired, beaming with 
satisfaction at having added her mite to the good cause, 
a sudden and uncontrollable impulse moved Christie to 
rise in her place and ask leave to speak. It was readily 
granted, and a little stir of interest greeted her; for she 
was known to many as Mr. Power’s friend, David Ster- 
ling’s wife, or an army nurse who had done well. Whis- 


* sa 


428 WORK. 


pers circulated quickly, and faces brightened as they 
turned toward her; for she had a helpful look, and her 
first words pleased them. When the president invited 
her to the platform she paused on the lowest step, say- 
ing with an expressive look and gesture : 

“T am better here, thank you; for I have been and 
mean to be a working-woman all my life.” 

“Hear! hear!”~cried a stout matron in a gay bon- 
net, and the rest indorsed the sentiment with a hearty 
round. Then they were very still, and then in a clear, 
steady voice, with the sympathetic undertone to it that 
is so magical in its effect, Christie made her first speech 
in public since she left the stage. 

That early training stood her in good stead now, 
giving her self-possession, power of voice, and ease of 
gesture ; while the purpose at her heart lent her the sort 
of simple eloquence that touches, persuades, and con- 
vinces better than logic, flattery, or oratory. 

What she said she hardly knew: words came faster 
than she could utter them, thoughts pressed upon her, 
and all the lessons of her life rose vividly before her to 
give weight to her arguments, value to her counsel, and 
the force of truth to every sentence she uttered. She 
had known so many of the same trials, troubles, and 
temptations that she could speak understandingly of 
them; and, better still, she had conquered or outlived 
so many of them, that she could not only pity but help 
others to do as she had done. } Having found in labor 
her best teacher, comforter, and friend, she could tell 
those who listened that, no matter how hard or humble 
the task at the beginning, if faithfully and bravely per- 
formed, it would surely prove a stepping-stone to some- 


AT FORTY. 429 


thing better, and with each honest effort they were 
fitting themselves for the nobler labor, and larger 
liberty God meant them to enjoy. 

The women felt that this speaker was one of them; 
for the same lines were on her face that they saw on 
their own, her hands were no fine lady’s hands, her 
dress plainer than some of theirs, her speech simple 
enough for all to understand; cheerful, comforting, and 
full of practical suggestion, illustrations out of their 
own experience, and a spirit of companionship that 
uyhfted their despondent hearts. 
> more impressive than any thing she said was the 
subtle magnetism of character, for that has a universal 
language which all can understand. They saw and felt 
that a genuine woman stood down there among them 

elike a sister, ready with head, heart, and hand to help 

‘them help themselves ; not offering pity as an alms, but 
justice as a right. Hardship and sorrow, long effort 
and late-won reward had been hers they knew; wife- 
hood, motherhood, and widowhood brought her very 
near to them; and behind her was the background of 
an earnest life, against which this figure with health on 
the cheeks, hope in the eyes, courage on the lips, and 
the ardor of a wide benevolence warming the whole 
countenance stood out full of unconscious dignity and 
beauty; an example to comfort, touch, and inspire 
them. 

It was not a long speech, and in it there was no 
learning, no statistics, and no politics; yet it was the 
speech of the evening, and when it was over no one 
else seemed to have any thing to say. As the meeting 
broke up Christie’s hand was shaken by many rough- 


430 WORK. 


ened by the needle, stained with printer’s ink, or hard 


with humbler toil; many faces smiled gratefully at her, 
and many voices thanked her heartily. But sweeter 
than any applause were the words of one woman who 
grasped her hand, and whispered with wet eyes: 

“JT knew your blessed husband ; he was very good to 
me, and I’ve been thanking the Lord he had such a 
wife for his reward! ” 

Christie was thinking of all this as she sat alone that 
day, and asking herself if she should go on; for the 
ladies had been as grateful as the women; had begged 
her to come and speak again, saying they needed just 
such a mediator to bridge across the space that now 
divided them from those they wished to serve. She 
certainly seemed fitted to act as interpreter between 
the two classes; for, from the gentleman her father she 
had inherited the fine instincts, gracious manners, and 
unblemished name of an old and honorable race; from 
the farmer’s daughter, her mother, came the equally 
valuable dower of practical virtues, a sturdy love of 
independence, and great respect for the skill and cour- 
age that can win it. 

Such women were much needed and are not always 
easy to find; for even in democratic America the hand 
that earns its daily bread must wear some talent, name, 
or honor as an ornament, before it is very cordially 
shaken by those that wear white gloves. 

“ Perhaps this is the task my life has been fitting me 
for,” she said. “ A great and noble one which I should 
be proud to accept and help accomplish if I can. Others 
have finished the emancipation work and done it splen- 


didly, even at the cost of all this blood and sorrow. I | 


AT FORTY. 431 


came too late to do any thing but give my husband 
and behold the glorious end. This new task seems to 
offer me the chance of being among the pioneers, to 
do the hard work, share the persecution, and help lay 
_the foundation of a new emancipation whose happy 
success I may never see.. Yet I had rather be remem- 
bered as those brave beginners are, though many of 
them missed the triumph, than as the late comers will 
be, who only beat the drums and wave the banners 
when the victory is won.” 

Just then the gate creaked on its hinges, a step 
sounded in the porch, and little Ruth ran in to say in 
an audible whisper : 

“Tt’s a lady, mamma, a very pretty lady: can you 
see her?” 

_“ Yes, dear, ask her in.” 

There was a rustle of sweeping silks through the 
narrow hall, a vision of a very lovely woman in the 
door-way, and two daintily gloved hands were extended 
as an eager voice asked: “ Dearest Christie, don’t you 
remember Bella Carrol ?” | 

Christie did remember, and had her in her arms di- 
rectly, utterly regardless of the imminent destruction of 
a marvellous hat, or the bad effect of tears on violet. 
ribbons. Presently they were sitting close together, 
talking with April faces, and telling their stories as 
women must when they meet after the lapse of years. 
A few letters had passed between them, but Bella had 
been abroad, and Christie too busy living her life to 
have much time to write about it. 

“ Your mother, Bella? how is she, and where ?” 

“Still with Augustine, and he you know is melan- 


432 WORK. 


choly mad: very quiet, very patient, and very kind 
to every one but himself. His penances for the sins 
of his race would soon kill him if mother was not 
there to watch over him. And her penance is never 
to leave him.” 

“Dear child, don’t tell me any more; it is too sad. 
Talk of yourself and Harry. Now you smile, so I’m 
sure all is well with him.” 

“ Yes, thank heaven! Christie, I do believe fate 
means to spare us as dear old Dr. Shirley said. I never 
can be gay again, but I keep as cheerful and busy as 
I can, for Harry’s sake, and he does the same for mine. 
We shall always be together, and all in all to one 
another, for we can never marry and have homes apart 
you know. We have wandered over the face of the 
earth for several years, and now we mean to settle 
down and be as happy and-as useful as we can.” 

“ That’s brave! I am so glad to hear it, and so truly 
thankful it is possible. But tell me, Bella, what Harry 
means to do? You spoke in one of your first letters 
of his being hard at work studying medicine. Is that 
to be his profession ?” 

“Yes; I don’t know what made him choose it, unless 
it was the hope that he might spare other families from 
a curse like ours, or lighten it if it came. After 
Helen’s death he was a changed creature; no longer a 
wild boy, but aman. I told him what you said to me, 
and it gave him hope. Dr. Shirley confirmed it as far 
as he dared; and Hal resolved to make the most of his 
one chance by interesting himself in some absorbing 
study, and leaving no room for fear, no time for danger- 
ous recollections. I was so glad, and mother so com- 


9 


ATANGRTY. . 433 


forted, for we both feared that sad trouble would 
destroy him. He studied hard, got on splendidly, 
and then went abroad to finish off I went with him; 
for poor August was past hope, and mamma would 
not let me help her. The doctor said it was best for 
me to be away, and excellent for Hal to have me with 
him, to cheer him up, and keep him steady with a 
little responsibility. We have been happy together \ 
in spite of our trouble, he in his profession, and I in 
him; now he is ready, so we have come home, and 
now the hardest part begins for me.” 

“ How, Bella?” 

“We has his work and loves it: I have nothing 
after my duty to him is done. I find I’ve lost my 
taste for the old pleasures and pursuits, and though 
I have tried more sober, solid ones, there still remains 
much time to hang heavy on my hands, and such an 
empty place in my heart, that even Uarry’s love can- 
not fill it. I’m afraid I shall get melancholy, —that 
is the beginning of the end for us, you know.” 

As Bella spoke the light died out of her eyes, and 
they grew despairing with the gloom of a tragic mem- 
ory. Christie drew the beautiful, pathetic face down 
upon her bosom, longing to comfort, yet feeling very 
powerless to lighten Bella’s burden. 

But Christie’s little daughter did it for her. Ruth 
had been standing near regarding the “pretty lady,” 
with as much wonder and admiration as if she thought 
her a fairy princess, who might vanish before she got a 
good look at her. Divining with a child’s quick instinct 
that the princess was in trouble, Ruth flew into the 
porch, caught up her latest and dearest treasure, and 

19 BB 


434 WORK. 


presented it as a sure consolation, with such sweet 
good-will, that Bella could not refuse, although it was 
only a fuzzy caterpillar in a little box. 

“T give it to you because it is my nicest one and just 
ready to spin up. Do you like pussy-pillars, and know 
how they do it?” asked Ruth, emboldened by the kiss 
she got in return for her offering. 

“Tell me all about it, darling,” and Bella could not 
help smiling, as the child fixed her great eyes upon her 
and told her little story with such earnestness, that sb 
was breathless by the time she ended. 

“At first they are only grubs you know, and st. 
down in the earth; then they are like this, nice and 
downy and humpy, when they walk; and when it’s 
time they spin up and go to sleep. It’s all dark in 
their little beds, and they don’t know what may happen 
to’em; but they are not afraid ’cause God takes care 
of ’em. So they wait and don’t fret, and when it’s 
right for ’°em they come out splendid butterflies, all 
beautiful and shining like your gown. They are happy 
then, and fly away to eat honey, and live in the air, 
and never be creeping worms any more.” 

“ That’s a pretty lesson for me,” said Bella softly, “I 
accept and thank you for it, little teacher; I’ll try to 
be a patient ‘pussy-pillar’ though it ¢s dark, and I 
don’t know what may happen to me; and I'll wait 
hopefully till it’s time to float away a happy butter- 
fly.” 

“Go and get the friend some flowers, the gayest 
and sweetest you can find, Pansy,” said Christie, and, 
as the child ran off, she added to her friend: 

“ Now we must think of something pleasant for you 


AT-RORTY. 435 


to do. It may take a little time, but I know we 
shall find your niche if we give our minds to it.” 

“That’s one reason why I came. I heard some 
friends of mine talking about you yesterday, and they 
seemed to think you were equal to any thing in the 
way of good works. Charity is the usual refuge for 

- people like me, so I wish to try it. I don’t mind 
doing or seeing sad or disagreeable things, if it only 
~'s up my life and helps me to forget.” 

“You will help more by giving of your abundance 

those who know how to dispense it wisely, than by 
ti, ing to do it yourself, my dear. I never advise pretty 
creatures like you to tuck up their silk gowns and go 
down into the sloughs with alms for the poor, who 
don’t like it any better than you do, and so. much pity 
and money are wasted in sentimental charity.” 

“Then what shall I do?” 

“Tf you choose you can find plenty of work in your 
own Class; for, if you will allow me to say it, they need 
help quite as much as the paupers, though in a very 
different way.” 

“Oh, you mean I’m to be strong-minded, to cry 
aloud and spare not, to denounce their iniquities, and 
demand their money or their lives?” 

“Now, Bella, that’s personal; for I made my first 
speech a night or two ago.” 

“JT know you did, and I wish I’d heard it. I’d make 
mine to-night if I could do it half as well as I’m told. 
you did,” interrupted Bella, clapping her hands with a 
face full of approval. 

But Christie was in earnest, and produced her new 
project with all speed. 


436 WORK. 


“JT want you to try a little experiment for me, and 
if it succeeds you shall have all the glory; I’ve been © 
waiting for some one to undertake it, and I fancy you 
are the woman. Not every one could attempt it; for it 
needs wealth and position, beauty and accomplishments, 
much tact, and more than all a heart that has not been 
spoilt by the world, but taught through sorrow how to 
value and use life well.” 

“Christie, what is it? this experiment that needs so 
much, and yet which you think me capable of trying?” 
asked Bella, interested and flattered by this opening. 

“T want you to set a new fashion: you know you 
can set almost any you choose in your own circle; for 
people are very like sheep, and will follow their leader 
if it happeris to be one they fancy. I don’t ask you to 
be a De Staél, and have a brilliant salon: I only want 
you to provide employment and pleasure for others 
like yourself, who now are dying of frivolity or ennat.” 

“TJ should love to do that if I could. Tell me how.” 

“ Well, dear, I want you to make Harry’s home as 
beautiful and attractive as you can; to keep all the 
elegance and refinement of former times, and to add to 
it a new charm by setting the fashion of common sense. 
Invite all the old friends, and as many new ones as you 
choose; but have it understood that they are to come 
as intelligent men and women, not as pleasure-hunting 
beaux and belles; give them conversation instead of 
gossip; less food for the body and more for the mind; 
the healthy stimulus of the nobler pleasures they can 
command, instead of the harmful excitements of pres- 
ent dissipation. In short, show them the sort of society 
we need more of, and might so easily have if those who 


ATMEORTY. 437 


possess the means of culture cared for the best sort, 
and took pride in acquiring it. Do you understand, 
Bella?” 

“ Yes, but it’s a great undertaking, and you could 
do it better than I.” 

“Bless you, no! I haven’t a single qualification for 
it but the will to have it done. I’m ‘strong-minded,’ 
a radical, and a reformer. I’ve done all sorts of dread- 
ful things to get my living, and I have neither youth, 
beauty, talent, or position to back me up; so I should 
only be politely ignored if I tried the experiment my- 
self. I don’t want you to break out and announce 
your purpose with a flourish; or try to reform society 
at large, but I do want you to devote yourself and your 
advantages to quietly insinuating.a better state of 
things into one little circle. The very fact of your own 
want, your own weariness, proves how much such a re- 
form is needed. There are so many fine young women 
longing for something to fill up the empty places that 
come when the first flush of youth is over, and the 
serious side of life appears; so many promising young 
men learning to conceal or condemn the high ideals 
and the noble purposes they started with, because 
they find no welcome for them. You might help both 
by simply creating a purer atmosphere for them to 
breathe, sunshine to foster instead of frost to nip their 
good aspirations, and so, even if you planted no seed, 
you might encourage a timid sprout or two that would 
one day be a lovely flower or a grand tree all would 
admire and enjoy.” 

As Christie ended with the figure suggested by her 
favorite work, Bella said after a thoughtful pause : 


438 WORK. 


“ But few of the women I know can talk about any 
thing but servants, dress, and gossip. Here and there 
one knows something of music, art, or literature; but the 
superior ones are not favorites with the larger class of 
gentlemen.” 

“Then let the superior women cultivate the smaller 
class of men who do admire intelligence as well as 
beauty. There are plenty of them, and you had better 
introduce a few as samples, though their coats may not 
be of_the finest broadcloth, nor their fathers ‘solid 
sa Es lead in society, and when men find 
that they can not only dress with taste, but talk with 
sense, the lords of creation will be glad to drop mere 
twaddle and converse as with their cae les 
my heart!” cried Christie, walking about the~room 
as if she had mounted her hobby, and was off for 
a canter, “how people can go on in such an idiotic 
fashion passes my understanding. Why keep up an 
endless clatter about gowns and dinners, your neigh- 
bors’ affairs, and your own aches, when there is a world 
full of grand questions to settle, lovely things to see, 
wise things to study, and noble things to imitate. 
Bella, you must try the experiment, and be the queen 
of a better society than any you can reign over now.” 

“It looks inviting, and I wil try it with you to help 
me. I know Harry would like it, and I’ll get him to 
recommend it to his patients. If he is as successful 
here as elsewhere they will swallow any dose he orders; 
for he knows how to manage people wonderfully well. 
He prescribed a silk dress to a despondent, dowdy 
patient once, telling her the electricity of silk was 
good for her nerves: she obeyed, and when well 


AT FORTY. 439 


dressed felt so much better that she bestirred herself 
generally and recovered ; but to this day she sings the 
praises of Dr. Carrol’s electric cure.” 

Bella was laughing gaily as she spoke, and so was 
Christie as she replied: 

“'That’s just what I want you to do with your 
patients. Dress up their minds in their best; get them 
out into the air; and cure their ilis by the magnetism 
of more active, earnest lives.” 

They talked over the new plan with increasing in- 
terest; for Christie did not mean that Bella should be 
ore of the brilliant women who shine for a little while, 
and then go out like a firework. And Bella felt as if 
she had found something to do in her own sphere, a 
sort of charity she was fitted for, and with it a pleasant 
sense of power to give it zest. 

When Letty and her mother came in, they found a 
much happier looking guest than the one Christie had 
welcomed an hour before. Scarcely had she introduced 
them when voices in the lane made all look up to see 
old Hepsey and Mrs. Wilkins approaching. 

“Two more of my dear friends, Bella: a fugitive slave 
and a laundress. One has saved scores of her own peo- 
“ple, and is my pet heroine. The other has the bravest, 
cheeriest soul I know, and is my private oracle.” 

The words were hardly out of Christie’s mouth 
when in they came; Hepsey’s black face shining with 
affection, and Mrs. Wilkins as usual running over with 
kind words. 

“ My dear creeter, the best of wishes and no end of 
happy birthdays. There’s a triflin’ keepsake; tuck it 
away, and look at it byme by. Mis’ Sterlin’, I’m 


440 WORK. 


proper glad to see you lookin’ so well. Aunt Letty, 
how’s that darlin’ child? I ain’t the pleasure of 
your acquaintance, Miss, but I’m pleased to see you. 
The children all sent love, likewise Lisha, whose bones 
is better sense I tried the camfire and red flannel.” 

Then they settled down like a flock of birds of vari- 
ous plumage and power of song, but all amicably dis- 
posed, and ready to peck socially at any topic which 
might turn up. 

Mrs. Wilkins started one by exclaiming as she “ laid 
off” her bonnet: 

“Sakes alive, there’s a new picter! Ain’t it beau- 
tiful ?” 

“Colonel Fletcher brought it this morning. A great 
artist painted it for him, and he gave it to me in a way 
that added much to its value,” answered Christie, with 
both gratitude and affection in her face; for she was a 
woman who could change a lover to a friend, and keep 
him all her life. 

It was a quaint and lovely picture of Mr. Greatheart, 
leading the fugitives from the City of Destruction. <A _ 
dark wood lay behind; a wide river rolled before; 
Mercy and Christiana pressed close to their faithful 
guide, who went down the rough and narrow path bear- 
ing a cross-hilted sword in his right hand, and holding 
a sleeping baby with the left. The sun was just rising, 
and a long ray made a bright path athwart the river, 
turned Greatheart’s dinted armor to gold, and shone 
into the brave and tender face that seemed to look 
beyond the sunrise. 

“There ’s just a hint of Davy in it that is very com- 
forting to me,” said Mrs. Sterling, as she laid her old 


AT FORTY. 


hands softly together, and looked up with her dey. 
eyes full of love. 

« Dem women oughter bin black,” murmured Hepsey, 
tearfiilly ; for she considered David worthy of a place 
with old John Brown and Colonel Shaw. 

“The child looks like Pansy, we all think,” added 
Letty, as the little girl brought her nosegay for Aunty 
to tie up prettily. | 

Christie said nothing, because she felt too much; and 
Bella was also silent because she knew too little. But 
Mrs. Wilkins with her kindly tact changed the subject 
before it grew painful, and asked with sudden interest: 

“When be you a goin’ to hold forth agin, Christie? 
Jest let me know beforehand, and I’ll wear my old 
gloves: I tore my best ones all to rags clappin’ of you ; 
it was so extra good.” 

“JT don’t deserve any credit for the speech, because 
it spoke itself, and I couldn’t help it. I had no thought 
of such a thing till it came over me all at once, and I 
was up before I knew it. I’m truly glad you liked it, 
but I shall never make another, unless you think I’d 
better. You know I always ask your advice, and what 
is more remarkable usually take it,” said Christie, glad 
to consult her oracle. 

“ Hadn’t you better rest a little before you begin any 
new task, my daughter? You have done so much 
these last years you must be tired,” interrupted Mrs. 
Sterling, with a look of tender anxiety. 

“ You know I work for two, mother,” answered Chris- 
tie, with the clear, sweet expression her face always 
wore when she spoke of David. “Iam not tired yet: 


I hope I never shall be, for without my work I should 
19* 


WORK. 


. into despair or ennui. There is so much to be done, 

and it is so delightful to help do it, that 1 never mean 
to fold my hands till they are useless. I owe all I can 
do, for in labor, and the efforts and experiences that 
grew out of it, I have found independence, education, 
happiness, and religion.” 
“Then, my dear, you are ready to help other folks 
into the same blessed state, and it’s your duty to do 
it!” cried Mrs. Wilkins, her keen eyes full of sympathy 
and commendation as they rested on Christie’s cheerful, 
earnest face. “Ef the sperrit moves you to speak, up 
and do it without no misgivin’s. J think it was a special 
leadin’ that night, and I hope you’ll foller, for it ain’t 
every one that can make folks laugh and cry with a 
few plain words that go right to a body’s heart and stop 
there real comfortable and fillin’. I guess this is your 
next job, my dear, and you’d better ketch hold and 
give it the right turn; for it’s goin’ to take time, and 
women ain’t stood alone for so long they ’ll need a sight 
of boostin’.” 

There was a general laugh at the close of Mrs. Wil- 
kins’s remarks; but Christie answered seriously : “ I ac- 
cept the task, and will do my share faithfully with 
words or work, as shall seem best. We all need much 
preparation for the good time that is coming to us, and 
can get it best by trying to know and help, love and 
educate one another, — as we do here.” 

With an impulsive gesture Christie stretched her 
hands to the friends about her, and with one accord 
they laid theirs on hers, a loving league of sisters, 
old and young, black and white, rich and poor, each 
ready to do her part to hasten the coming-of the happy 
end. 


Al KORTY: 443 


“Me too!” cried little Ruth, and spread her chubby 
hand above the rest: a hopeful omen, seeming to 
promise that the coming generation of women will not 
only receive but deserve their liberty, by learning that 
the greatest of God’s gifts to us is the privilege of 
sharing His great work. 


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